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SELECTIONS FROM THE PAPERS 



JOHN ST. MAWE, A. B. 



TRINITY COLLEGE CAMBRIDGE. 



hpov uzrvov 
Koifturui' Sveiffxtiv [An Xiyi rovs ayuOovs. 

Call. Epigr. 

The wintry blast of death 
Kills not the buds of virtue; no, they spread, 
Beneath the heavenly beams of brighter suns, 
Through endless ages, into higher powere. 

Thomson's Summer. 



/ 



LONDON: Q> 

PRINTED BY W. M'DOWAIL, PEMBERTON ROW 
GOUGH SQUARE. 

1821. 




- CONTENTS 



Memoir i 

PrometJieus • * 1 

Imperial and Papal Rome 11 

Angelo 35 

The Negress's Address to her Shadow 6l 

The Poet's Lament 67 

TheKitten 75 

The same Subject 81 

POEMS. 

To my Hope 93 

ToMyra 95 

An Epistle to A. T. Tatlow,Esq. 97 

Verses on John St. Mawe Tatlow 103 

To Miranda r- 107 

To a Lady singing Ill 

Sonnet 113 

ToZ • 115 



iv CONTENTS. 

To a Young Lady U9 

To the same 12S 

To the same 125 

To the same 127 

Help, Lord, or we perish 129 

To Miranda 133 

Life 137 

A Picture • 139 

To the Rose 141 

Stanzas ••• 143 

To a Fair Stranger 1 47 

Verses 151 

To the Morn 15S 

FRAGMENTS. 

Jerusalem • 1,59 

LETTERS. 

To A. T. Tatlow, Esq. ••* >- 171 

To the same • 180 

To the same • *■» 186 

To the same • 190 

To the Rev. C. Swan 194 

To the same • 197 



MEMOIR. 



AS the present little volume is intended principally 
for the perusal of those to whom the Author was 
known, there needs no apology for prefixing to it a 
brief narration of the chief events of his life, We 
shall therefore, without entering into a detail of ca- 
sual, or uninteresting circumstances, endeavour to af- 
ford his friends such a memoir as, aided by their own 
recollections, may supply a faithful record of what he 
has been, and a tacit pledge of what he might have 
been, had Providence in its wisdom so ordered, or in 
its mercy so permitted. 

A life spent in studious retirement, and in the si- 
lent acquisition of knowledge, furnishes but few ma- 



vi MEMOIR. 

terials to the biographer: and a subject like the pre- 
sent, however replete with sources of consolation to 
the domestic circle of which he was at once the orna- 
ment and delight, may be more truly commemorated 
in the noiseless reflection of those hearts in which his 
virtues have embalmed his memory. As his mind 
was richly stored with knowledge, and fraught with 
all the genius that in maturity would have blended 
his name with the names of the most exalted literary 
characters of our country, we may presume that he 
was destined to have ranked with those whose short 
careers were matter of momentous thought; " as 
though it were the fate of a certain gracefulness of 
character to meet with an early death, as if Providence 
would keep its image with us always young — extin- 
guished, not decayed." 

John St. Mawe was bom on the 21st of Febru- 
ary, 1798, and at the age of nine years was admitted 
a student of St. Paul's school. While in this seminary, 



MEMOIR. vii 

his poetical talents, and taste for literary pursuits, dis- 
played themselves, and his endowments, even in boy- 
hood, excited expectations, which, in his advance- 
ment to manhood, seemed " growing with his 
growth." 

At the age of sixteen, he wrote a satire of great me- 
rit, hut which, from motives of delicacy, as the cha- 
racters satirized are well known and still alive, we 
have refrained from publishing. " The Poet's Lament,** 
and many of the minor poems which appear in the 
following pages, were written about that period.- — 
During the Christmas recess of 1814-15, he composed 
his poem of Prometheus— a subject which had been 
proposed for a prize poem to be recited at the ensuing 
Apposition *. This production was received with the 



* This is held every year a few weeks after Easter, when 
about twelve of the senior scholars declaim publicly upon the 



viii MEMOIR. 

most encouraging approbation, and the talents of the 
Author were rewarded by the presentation of the 
prize, which had that year been first instituted for the 
best composition in English verse. 

He now quitted St. Paul's school ; in the October 
following, he commenced his residence at Trinity Col- 
lege, Cambridge, and graduated in January, 1819— 
During his abode in the university, he exhibited a 
strong distaste to mathematical studies; and, indulg- 
ing the natural bent of his genius, devoted by far the 
greater portion of his time to general literature, the 
classics, and composition. 

Although naturally of a delicate constitution, his 
habits of study were active and persevering; and 



subjects, which have been proposed by the High Master for com- 
position during the preceding Christmas vacation. 



MEMOIR. i x 

while he ranged with the avidity of a classic soul 
through the literature which has perpetuated the en- 
lightened and most glorious ages of Greece and Rome, 
his attention was ardently devoted to the luminaries 
of our own language— the early poets, philosophers, 
and sages of our country, 

Plato and the Tragedians were his peculiar favor- 
ites, and he had collected materials for a glossary of 
Sophocles. In this course of laborious application, 
moral philosophy and metaphysics were not forgotten : 
he read with diligence and admiration the instructive 
lore of Bacon, of Berkeley, and of Locke. 

As a faint sketch of the literary plans which his in- 
defatigable mind had proposed, may be acceptable, al- 
though it must fall infinitely short of its object, we 
shall make a few extracts from his Common Place 
Book, the intention of which he thus describes: — 



x MEMOIR. 

" This book was commenced by me on the 14th of 
August, 1816, for the purpose of recording whatever 
ideas my reading or meditation may have suggested, 
for the improvement of my own mind, or the advan- 
tage of others. 

" Plato and Spenser are the authors I am at pre- 
sent engaged with. I have for a time discontinued 
the study of mathematics; first, because I consider 
abstract reasoning, and reasoning by symbols, as less 
efficacious in expanding the mind, than metaphysical 
speculations; secondly, because the elements of mathe- 
matics are sufficient to bind the understanding to close 
ratiocination, (and this I have acquired); and thirdly, 
because I consider the improvement of the soul, by 
storing it with maxims of virtue and sublimity, pre- 
ferable to the strengthening of the mind by mathema- 



" Having some time since written an essay on the 



MEMOIR. XI 

civilization of Africa *, I was induced to nquire into 
the nature of man; how he was affected by education, 
and how he might become susceptible of civilization; 
and on this foundation I have projected the follow- 
ing work, intituled " An Inquiry into the Nature of 
Man." 

" 1. There is a bias implanted by nature in the mind 
of man, by which, if discovered and cultivated, he will 
be enabled to attain great intellectual qualities; and 
on its foundation, nobleness and grandeur of character 
may be raised. 

" 2. Considerations upon discovering the bias: — edu- 
cation, chivalry, law, religion, &c. 

" 3. According to Helvetius, there is a distinction be- 
tween the mind and soul, viz. the soul may exist with- 
out the mind, as in an idiot or child ; but this hypo- 
thesis, though plausible enough, does not appear to be 



This essay was left incomplete. 



xii MEMOIR. 

correct. The mind, I imagine, is a member of the 
soul; it is the source of intellect, as the other is the 
fountain of existence. It is true, the soul may exist 
without the mind, but the mind cannot exist without 
the soul. The mind may be called the emanation of 
the soul, though the soul may not possess the power 
of diffusing it at all times. Discrimination is produced 
by the combination of judgment and memory; genius 
is the bias formerly spoken of, and invention the opera- 
tion of that bias, stimulated by all the qualities of the 
mind. Taste is the operation of judgment stimulated 
by genius, to such an extent alone that it produces lik- 
ing, but not invention," 

" A projection of a work, intituled " The House 
of Dreams." To be ludicrous and grave; satyricaland 
panegyrical. To be divided into three cantos. 

0f " If it should please God to spare me, it is my in- 
tention, at some future period, to compose a poem on 



MEMOIR. xiii 

the Unknown World. The characters of antiquity 
will be the actors, the recital of their actions will form 
the narrative; and it will be interspersed with fable, 
by way of episode. 

" This work, with the " Inquiry into the Nature 
of Man," under the blessing and encouragement of 
Providence, I intend to be the chief literary labors 
of my life. I pray Him to bless my labors, that under 
His protection, they may advance His honor and glo- 
ry, and the happiness and instruction of mankind." 

" March 18, 1817. — Some time about this period, I 
brought to a conclusion a poem, called Jerusalem *, 
and I have introduced, partly experimentally, senti- 
ments of a metaphysical origin— metaphysical, as far 



Only a few leaves of the first copy were found among- 
his papers. 



xiv MEMIOR. 

as my own untutored ideas have been able to conceive 
of metaphysics." 

" August 12, 1817.— Brought to a conclusion the 
plans of the following works: 

1. The Prophet, a Poem. 

2. Pera, a Poem. 

" The progress of the mind in a being unconnected 
with her species; and whose only converse is with the 
exquisite and brilliant parts of nature; her notion of a 
superior Being, derived from the reflection of herself 
in a lake, and her voice mellowed to her by an echo — , 
The poem may open thus — Certain islanders are ador- 
ing the rising sun, whose beams are described as 
spreading a golden tint over the eastern waves ; a fi- 
gure in a vessel slowly advances to the island; and it 
is discovered to be a beautiful infant: the superstitious 
inhabitants believe that she is the offspring of their 



MEMOIR. X v 

god, and offer sacrifices accordingly. She is placed in 
a beautiful territory surrounded by hills, a region of 
eternal fragrance and beaut} 7 ; a crystal lake spreads 
its level waters in the middle, and every flower, which 
a benignant sun can rear, is diffused in abundance. 
The progress of her mind, under these influences, is 
described — her deity* — her language, collected from 
the sweetest voices which surround her. In this de- 
lightful spot she remains guarded, with the strictest 
attention, by the inhabitants, who never behold her, 
and whom she never beholds. At length, a lovely fe- 
male wanders beyond these barriers unperceived; she 



• " The soul, by its own native energy, by its powers of 
combining and associating objects with which it is familiar in the 
day, by its activity in dreams by night, forms for itself an Ely- 
sium of exquisite beauty, and peoples it with beings like itself 
in energies, and like the body shadowed out and mellowed on a 
watery mirror." 



XVi MEMOIR. 

fixes the attention of Pera by the melody of her voice, 
while she sings her own misfortunes* Pera imagines, 
in her noble port and majestic demeanour, the deity 
she has long worshipped— they love one another with 
eagerness; Pera leads her to the sweetest springs, and 
places before her the purest viands; worships her, and 
signifies, (by signs), her desire to be conducted to the 
heaven where she reigns — pointing to the skies. While 
she is speaking, an arrow from an unseen hand of one 
of the guards, strikes the stranger—she falls — her dy- 
ing. As she faints, Pera imagines she is slumbering; 
but will she wake again? Will the morning sun re- 
visit her, as it does herself? Whence is that paleness? 
The rose, as it fades from heat, is revigorated by the 
dews of morning. Pera then collects the water from 
the lake, and dashes it on the stranger's bosom — but 
she does not revive! The sun is now declining; she 
gazes on its full but tempered brightness; the secret 
sympathy prevails — she finds nature melting away 
within her; there was a secret tie which united their 



MEMOIR. xvii 

souls. She gazes now on the stranger's brow, but no 
brightness dignifies it; the faint gleam of life only 
shines ; she now looks to the sun, which is just sinking 
— she dies— but dreams, just before she dies, that all 
will awake on the morrow/' 

" S. The Fall of Lucifer, a dramatic poem, to be 
modelled upon the same principles as the Prometheus 
Vinctus. 

" 4. Essays, Civil, Philosophical, and Moral; to 
embrace those subjects which will lead to the civiliza- 
tion of the human kind, and the completing of the per- 
fectibility of the human character. Rational systems 
of government, of philosophy, and of religion, will be 
here discussed. Lord Bacon to be the model 

" After having revolved in my mind these plans, 
some of which I had considered before, but immedi- 
ately after I had imagined for the first time the dra- 
ft 



xviii MEMOIR. 

matic poem to be intituled " The Fall of Lucifer," 1 
arose from my bed, and beheld the glorious planet of 
the morning bursting in its full splendor upon me. I 
seized the omen, and oh, may my poem shine like the 
light of that star from whence it derives its name." 

" Axgelo," and " The Negress's Address to her 
Shadow," were written about the close of the year 

1817. 

" Imperial and Papal Rome," " The Kitten," and 
the projection of many works of a religious character 
were the productions of 1818." 

We shall conclude our extracts from the Common 
Place Book, with some of a speculative nature, which 
may give an idea of the varied matter it contains. 

" Sometimes, when I look suddenly upon a grand 
and magnificent object of nature — as a glorious sun- 



MEMOIR. x ix 

rise, or the heavens bright with stars; instead of re- 
ceiving the overwhelming influence of its beauty, my 
soul seems completely dead to it; and immediately the 
remembered image of some beloved object takes com- 
plete possession of my breast. Whence does this arise ? 
— The soul of beauty pervades the universe, and gives 
birth in the heart to a congenial feeling, which awak- 
ens and revives the image of a beautiful object che- 
rished there, which object produces upon the senses a 
deeper impression than even the beauties of the uni- 
verse." 

" There is more validity in one tear which falls 
from a repentant sinner, more efficacy in a single sigh, 
than in all the pomp of a pretended piety, or in all the 
decoration of a false devotion. Over the conversion of 
a sinner there is jubilee in Heaven. One conquest 
over the spiritual enemy is celebrated in hymns of im- 
mortal melody. The eyes of ten thousand cherubim 
beam with a brighter radiance; and they hail with 



xx MEMOIR. 

songs of seraphic rapture the nativity of a brother. 
They mark with unceasing vigilance, and they conse- 
crate, that falling tear-drop, and at length fix it, like 
some glorious pearl, in the treasury of Heaven." 

" The immortality of mighty minds, as they live in 
the works of Shakespeare, Bacon, and Newton, is not 
to be compared with the immortality of fame acquired 

by him who turneth one sinner to repentance the 

works of genius must at least perish in the general con- 
flagration, but the monuments of the preacher's labors 
shine in Heaven. They are the grand pillars and the 
chief ornaments in the Temple of the Celestial Jeru- 
salem. We think it a glorious thing to obtain a transi- 
tory monument in St. Paul's or Westminster Abbey. 
In the eternal temple of God how much more glorious 
must it be, to behold monuments which we have so 
long been laboring to erect and to establish, decorated 
with the spoils of our spiritual foe ; the pomp and va- 
nities of the world ; the painted ensigns of flattery and 



MEMOIR. xxi 

folly; the pride of family; the splendor of ancestry; 
the glories or royalty ! Every converted soul is an e- 
ternal monument of our labor of love in the Lord; not 
shining with gold, silver, or marble, but blazing with 
the effulgence of Godhead, and conformed to the glo- 
rious image of Christ." 

It will be seen, by a perusal of these extracts, that 
thoughts of a highly religious nature had engrossed his 
attention: and in a short time subsequent to his depart- 
ure from the university, his mind became so thorough- 
ly imbued with strong and serious religious impressions, 
that he resigned himself to their impulse. Although 
he had been originally destined by his friends for the 
profession of a Barrister, and had kept several terms 
at the Inner Temple, he resolved to forego the prospects 
the law presented to him, and to devote himself to the 
ministry of the Church. From the moment that he 
had embraced this determination, the whole faculties 
of his soul seemed fixed and absorbed in the contem- 
plation of that sacred office: he became deeply and 



xxii MEMOIR, 

habitually pious. The earnest zeal and fervor with 
which he applied to prepare himself for the future ser- 
vice of his God, may, in all human probability, have 
accelerated his departure from a world he was so cal- 
culated to benefit and adorn. 

In the spring of 1820, his looks announced languor 
and ill-health, which his friends attributed to too 
close an application to study; while his invariably 
cheerful spirits prevented the suspicion of any danger- 
ous symptoms of decline. The delusion was not of long 
duration ; and the hope of the speedy restoration of his 
health, which he was ever the first to excite and pro- 
mote, gave way to the most fearful apprehensious, 
when, upon the 8th of the succeeding June, he burst 
a blood vessel in his lungs. Alarmed by this most un- 
expected event, his parents determined on his removal 
from London to Derbyshire; and, as soon as he appear- 
ed sufficiently well to undertake the journey, he left 
London, accompanied by his anxious mother; but on 
reaching Northampton, he experienced a second at- 



MEMOIR. xxiii 

tack, from which, however, he apparently recovered 
so rapidly, that not only were the most sanguine hopes 
entertained of his ultimate recovery, but even the dear 
expectancy was indulged, of seeing him in a few days 
sufficiently strengthened to proceed to Matlock-Bath. 
— But early on Monday morning, the 10th of July, 
a third attack took place, and his disease increased 
with such rapidity, as to terminate his life on the 
Thursday following — strengthened by that faith which 
is the dearest gift of an all-merciful Creator to his 
creature — with a firm, devoted, and perfect reliance 
upon the blessed and redeeming grace of the Saviour 
of the world, he closed his mortal sufferings, which 
were great. His was a death which the philosopher 
might envy — and the Christian contemplate with the 
joy of righteousness. " Rejoice and be exceeding glad, 
for great is your reward in heaven." 



PROMETHEUS 



IPBq&SHBEaUBm 



HIS PRESENT MISERY— FORMER HAPPINESS- 
DESPAIR. 



O holy Light! new kindling into mom, 
Whose orient beams a gladdened world adorn! 
Onward thou ridest in thy gay career, 
To clothe with purple spring the golden year: 
But ah! thy joy-attempered rays impart 
No kindred feeling to my mournful heart. 
O'er all the world, thy radiant glories shine, 
Cheer every cheek, but cannot brighten mine. 
Soft Sleep, who pours her balm o'er every eye, 
Who lulls each bosom and arrests each sigh, 



4 PROMETHEUS. 

She from my brow and aching heart is fled; 
These chains affright her, and this rocky bed ! 
Unhappy wretch! in charity to man, 
Thy crime, thy punishment, thy woe began : 
Here must thou lie while thunders roar around, 
Rend the scathed oak, and rock the upheaving ground ; 
And as around its head the tempest sails, 
This summit scowls o'er the deep blackening vales. 
Here in primeval ruggedness of form, 
Stern Nature forges the relentless storm, 
Unchains the cataract, directs its course 
To crush the valley with resistless force, 
And hoarsely howling midnight horror flings, 
And pours a saddening gloom, and waves her raven 
wings! 

Ah me ! is Justice banished from above, 
Where once she smiled encircling Peace and Love; 
When Mercy, beaming with unclouded ray, 
Blessed Saturn's kingdom and paternal sway? 



PROMETHEUS. 

Yes! she is fled, she leaves the accursed place, 
The hateful Tyrant, and Heaven's recreant race. 
So when the thunders roar and lightnings fly, 
And a dread deluge whelms the angry sky, 
Perchance the tempest rouses from the grove, 
'Mid myrtle-bowers, a silver-winged dove, 
Far from her nest, 'mid ether launched, she sails, 
And in sad notes her cruel fate bewails. 

When youthful Hope her gay perspective drew, 
Of every form, and every rainbow-hue; 
My mind ambitious soon the task began — 
To mould Creation's Lord, and fashion Man; 
To watch the features, glowing from the clay, 
Rise to my view and my behest obey! 
Yet is this man? while all bedimmed he lies, 
Unflushed his cheek and unillumed his eyes! 
Oh! for one beam of pure ethereal fire, 
The clay to warm, to animate, inspire. 
No more ! but swift as flits the viewless breeze, 
And skims the bosom of the rippling seas, 



6 PROMETHEUS. 

1 gain the throne of Heaven's immortal Sire, 

Where flows the fountain of ethereal fire. 

Pure, vivid light ! that woke primeval day, 

And over chaos shed its genial ray ; 

Pure, vivid light ! that bathed each twinkling star 

With golden beams, and pallid Cynthia's car 

With choicest silver graced, and bade her reign 

Supreme, the glory of the starry plain. 

In earth-born Man that ray, divinely bright, 

To Reason gave her pure unclouded light. 

Methinks I view the fire within him glow, 
Thaw the chilled vein, and bid the spirit flow, 
His eyes that stagger with unwonted light, 
And reel with sudden drunkenness of sight, 
He viewed around him all creation shine, 
" The earth," he cries, " the seas, the sky is mine, 
" All, all are mine !" he clasped his hands and said, 
" For me alone the universe is made." 
No more he uttered — Bliss congealed his tongue, 
And from his eyes the tears of gladness sprung; 



PROMETHEUS. j 

Sublime he reared his forehead to the skies, 
And Reason cried " Thy soul must upward rise;" 
Thy soul still burning with a fond desire, 
To mix with Heaven, and join her kindred fire! 
As when a mother on her infant's face, 
Twined with her charms beholds the father's grace; 
How mixed with smiles the tears of pleasure start! 
What soft sensations thrill her panting heart! 
Thus my fixed eyes surveyed the blaze of light, 
That graced the brilliant dawn of human sight; 
Gazed on the brow where Reason proudly shone, 
And hailed the mighty wonder as my own! 

I saw fair Nature, gladdening at the view, 
Robe all her beauties with a richer hue: 
When Man first spake the birds around him hung 
To borrow notes from his melodious tongue : 
His feet to lave, a gurgling fountain flowed; 
His touch to greet, a new-born blossom glowed : 
Gales swept of harps unseen the trembling chord, 
And Echo chanted—" Hail Creation's Lord!" 



8 PROMETHEUS. 

But sorrow soon o'erwhelmed this gay serene, 
And joy was banished from the gorgeous scene! 
As when a cloud whose purple tints display 
The warm effulgence of retiring day, 
Charms every eye — transports the wondering gaze 
With all the hues that in its radiance blaze ; 
But ah ! each tint by darkness is suppressed, 
When Phoebus sinks on Ocean's liquid breast. 

Arise, ye rocks; ye oceans, intervene! 
Divide my heart from that alluring scene! 
Rage, rage, ye storms; ye tempests howl around 
This rugged rock, and shake the accursed ground! 
From your abyss, ye phrensied Furies, start! 
My anger nerve, and blaze within my heart! 

Arise! and bear me to your dread abodes, 
Where every pang the tortured soul corrodes! 
Where Grief and Misery stalk with steely hands 
To execute fierce Pluto's dire commands; 



PROMETHEUS. 9 

Where Disappointment counts her tears, that flow 
In unison with agonizing woe. 

Shall I adore the Tyrant of the skies, 
Bow my proud neck, and sue with downcast eyes! 
Sooner should Cynthia's silver-tinted light 
In Heaven dissolve amid the shades of night! 
Sooner should Darkness close the eye of Day, 
And Discord over all extend her sway. 

E'en if the Tyrant should himself descend, 
And with his car the firmament should bend, 
While round his brow the storms and meteors fly, 
And o'er him blaze the terrors of the sky; 
Though from his chariot- wheel the thunders roll, 
That rock the deep and agitate the pole; 
Though forests crash beneath his ponderous feet, 
And seas retiring court a safe retreat; 
Though underneath him mountains crumbling fall, 
And dreadful tremors shake the astonished Ball; 



10 PROMETHEUS. 

Though all the storms of maddening Heaven be sped, 
To crush these limbs, and blast this aching head; 
E'en should this globe 'mid gloomy space be hurled, 
My mind shall reign unquelled amidst the bursting 
world! 



IMPERIAL AND PAPAL ROME. 



asfUPiHBS&Bi &mm ws&m* mmm. 



JMLajestic Rome ! how desolate and bare, 
Thy monumental piles and marbles glare! 
The vivid urn, the genius-breathing bust, 
Mix with the hero's clay their common dust! 
The mouldering statues crumble side by side, 
And wasted genius mourns o'er wasted pride: 
The distant owl now flaps her funeral wing, 
Where brightest maids once wove the choral ring ; 
And livid Tiber calms his waves to sleep 
To many a watch-dog's murmur, slow and deep. 
'Tis sweet to view the bright moon burst on high 
In one wide flood of glory from the sky, 



14 IMPERIAL AND 

Shine o'er each ruined tower, each age-worn tomb, 
And steal from Time his wrinkles and his gloom; 
And o'er the Colosseum's giant height, 
Pour the calm grandeur of her vestal light ; 
Bathe in ethereal tints each waving flower 
That many a wild plant weaves round many a tower, 
And clothes each arch, where Heaven serenely blue, 
Like one vast curtain, spreads its living hue. 

Though shattered domes may mourn each vanished 
grace, 
And palsied columns totter on their base; 
Though man's mute records fade, and pass away, 
Realms fall to wreck, and empires soon decay; 
Yon azure vault maintains its youthful prime, 
Calm though unbounded, lovely though sublime! 
Still smile the stars in their unclouded light, 
And all their sapphire glories deck the night, 
Still as with proud triumphant march they rise, 
A silver radiance streams from all the skies: 



PAPAL ROME. 15 

Yet Heaven like thee, gigantic Rome ! must fall, 
One wide destroying blast will mingle all; 
Each orb that glows with pure celestial fire, 
Will weep its waning brightness and expire. 
What though the light of freedom once was hurled, 
And Roman virtue swayed a willing world ; 
No more the unclouded godhead of the mind 
Bursts forth in all its glory on mankind; 
No-more its twilight pours one parting ray 
To gild the wave which rolls o'er its decay ! 

But while dark-wasting Havoc seals thy doom, 
And chronicles her triumphs on thy tomb ; 
The living light of song shall wake again 
The giant shadows of thy warrior train; 
Pour the full charm of her unclouded ray, 
To call thy buried grandeur from decay : 
As when the Soul, at Memory's magic light, 
Starts from the phrensy which had sapped her might, 
In sudden sunshine drest, and brighter bloom, 
Each faded prospect wakens from its gloom ! 



16 IMPERIAL AND 

New scenes arise, and leave their clouds behind, 
And opening vistas live amid the mind *. 
How burns the infant's soul, how throbs his breast, 
To list each tale that Time had half supprest! 
At Cato's name his generous thoughts aspire, 
And all his genius glows with Tully's fire; 
Youth wins her light from thy reflected ray, 
When Boyhood's cloud-built dreams have smiled them- 
selves away! 

E'en now methinks I see thy Genius rise, 
His throne the earth, his canopy the skies; 
Live through thy pomp, in breathing marble dwell, 
And linger round the grandeur where he fell; 
Now strike the lyre, by Maro vocal made, 
And more than music breathes in every shade ; 
Now in the Forum's desolated bound, 
In Tully's form he shapes his lonely round; 



* Moore's Lalla Rookh. 



PAPAL ROME. 17 

On every breeze his murmurs seem to roll, 

And all his distant thunder awes the soul. 

See, as the Circus spreads its shadowy gloom, 

Its bosom labor with unpeopled Rome ; 

See, one vast ocean o'er the Arena roar, 

Where panthers prowled and Lybia burned before; 

See, struggling gallies spread the rival sail, 

Bound o'er the surge and scud before the gale ; 

See, at his voice the Memphian waves recoil, 

And yield their scaly monsters for the spoil. 

Fair was that radiant morn, that mimic spring, 
When Roman Fancy stretched her brightest wing; 
That smiling sunshine, that seducing bloom, 
Which veiled corruption, and adorned a tomb. 
See, like the swan, ere yet the Empire glide 
To swift decay, she spreads her wings of pride ! 
Serenely calm she rows her gallant state, 
Swells her arched neck, majestically great: 



18 IMPERIAL AND 

Hark ! as she dies, the sweetly melting song, 
The soul of music lingers on her tongue; 
Sweet are the notes which wake her latest breath, 
Which charm her life away and deify her death. 

Eternal sunshine and serenest skies 
In mockery gild the ruin they despise ; 
Soft curls the ivy, whose perpetual hue 
The hero's tomb o'ershades, for ever new : 
The tender verdure, and the golden rind 
Of fruits, whose fragrance woos the lingering wind; 
The silver fount, the hollow-murmuring brook, 
Still keep their morning smile, their freshest look : 
Spring, ever vocal, crowns the distant scene, 
And pours each luxury of hue between; 
Bids earth revive, and heaven, serenely bright, 
Calm the wide ocean of its azure light. 
But while the tuneful groves one requiem sing, 
Death haunts each grot, and breathes from every 
spring; 



PAPAL ROME. 19 

Exhales, like incense, from each breeze and flower, 
Smiles in each rosy charm, each fragrant bower. 

Turn thee awhile, and mark what hosts await 
Their tyrant's nod in mercenary state; 
How Albion's warrior scorns that bloated chief* 
Unchanged by fortune, unsubdued by grief! 
His front of majesty, his soul of flame, 
No bondage darkens, and no insults tame; 
His Mind expands beyond the victor's chain, 
Unconquered monarch of her own domain, 
Towers far above the glare which blinds the great, 
The splendid emptiness of mortal state. 

But should some minstrel wake the 'customed song 
Where Tiber glides in Hesper's beam along, 
What sun-bright visions float before his eyes — 
His kindred torrents, and his native skies! 
His little cot, the stream that wandered nigh, 
The hazy mount that kissed the dark blue sky; 



20 IMPERIAL AND 

The faithful dog that shared the forest spoil, 

The sports of evening and the morning toil; 

The winter tales that left no sting behind, 

In mellowed distance charm his lingering mind; 

Till loftier thoughts his rising dreams inspire, 

Religious rapture and sublime desire, 

Dark waving groves, and caves that frown between, 

Where, wrapt in silent gloom, a God presides unseen. 

Mute is his harp while tyrants taint the air, 
And Britain's Muse disdains to linger there! 
She wins from heaven the thunders as they rest 
In swarthy clouds upon the bare rock's breast, 
The winged lightnings darting awfully 
'Mid the deep horrors of her native sky: 
Till forged in storms her heaven-wove numbers hurled, 
In long continued peals arouse the world; 
Like her own ocean, wild and uncontrouled, 
They roll along, ungovernably bold. 



PAPAL ROME. 21 

ho ! yon proud ensigns, waving in the sky, 
Proclaim the long triumphant pageantry! 
Slow moves the pomp amid the wondering gaze 
Of white-robed citizens; —the various blaze 
Of various arms; the helm, the shining spear; 
And the dread Victor in his proud career! 

Vaze piled on vaze, and armour dearly won, 
Spread their unbroken splendor to the sun; 
Helm nods on helm, and breastplates breastplates 

crush, 
Plumes wave around, and orient banners blush; 
Embossed with brass the steely falchion glows, 
And golden urns on silver shields repose. 
It boots not here to tell each rich device, 
The curious workmanship and gems of price; 
How all the varying hues of heaven unite, 
Or blaze in proud vicissitudes of light: 
How captive gods, amid each marble mould, 
Still frown severe, or reign in sculptured gold. 



22 IMPERIAL AND 

Bright o'er yon shield, with rapt adoring eye, 

The Persian hails the awakening deity; 

Here Nile, slow rising from his world of waves, 

With liquid silver every valley laves: 

There, throned on high, the solemn Moon surveys 

The eternal lamps, which in her palace blaze ; 

Each star that pours, from its unclouded eye, 

A flood of golden light amid that silver sky. 

Tis sweet to mark in every passing gaze, 
How dread and rapture blend with wild amaze ; 
How generous youths, with bosoms all on fire, 
The clattering car and prancing steeds admire; 
How tottering age, half bowed with care and toil, 
In Fancy's mint recoins the golden spoil; 
How the rude hind with stupid wonder hears 
The deafening clarions strike upon his ears; 
How, while the sword and buckler clank around, 
And chill the heart with dissonance of sound, 
The pallid matron clasps, with fear oppressed, 
Her startled babe more closely to her breast. 



PAPAL ROME. 23 

Pass on— pass on — in one tumultuous crowd, 
Emblem of life, the humbled and the proud! 
The captive monarch and the infant band 
That round him mourn, and lift the unconscious hand ; 
Beauty serene, though withering with distress, 
In all the charm of weeping loveliness;] 
The haughty victor, as he rides along, 
'Mid flowers and incense, flattery and song; 
With formal face to show of meaning wrought, 
And the dull laboring impotence of thought*! 
The purple garment, sweeping far and wide, 
The golden crown, the trappings of his pride, 
Jove's conquering bird, that o'er the sceptre soared, 
Proclaimed the madman — as a god adored. 

Oh, pause ! and journeying thro' this world of strife, 
Mark, ere it fade, the moving pomp of life; 



* Juvenal. 



24 IMPERIAL AND 

How all mankind in one gay pageant run, 
Some to undo, and some to be undone! 
The fool who bears the chaplet on his head, 
Proud of his bonds, and like a victim led; 
The captive wretch, the contumelious throng, 
Who mock his sorrows and insult his wrong; 
The sons of verse, who adulate the vain, 
And with delusive roses strew the plain ; 
Power's gilded puppet, praise that smokes behind, 
Till Flattery's incense clouds the giddy mind! — 
All melt in proud and solemn march away, 
Life's transient pomp, the pageant of a day. 

For ever cursed be that ill-fated hour 
When Superstition lent her aid to Power; 
Quenched in the mind that reconciling ray 
Which o'er the cell might pour unclouded day, 
Wake round the tomb fair flowers of sweetest breath, 
And rise in sunshine from the waves of death. 



PAPAL ROME. 25 

When madden iug passions first began to roll 
And rock the firm foundations of the soul, 
Launch their intemperate storms with tenfold might, 
Dark rolling thunder, and portentous light; 
Sprung from the wrack, she reared her treacherous 

form, 
And rose the splendid phantom of the storm : 
Fair rosy clouds in floating wreaths embrace, 
And with a bloomy lustre veil her face; 
Break round her breast in blushes ever new, 
And blend with every charm a mellower hue ; 
Flushed with each mingling tint, each glorious dye 
That drinks a softer radiance from the sky. 

O'er Rome supreme she rears her viewless throne, 
And animates with mind the breathing stone, 
In dazzling glory dawns through every grace, 
Glows in each sculptured charm, each pictured face; 
Ideal Beauty ! while the heart grows warm 
With holy love, she stamps thy radiant form; 



26 IMPERIAL AND 

Divinely fair, and eloquently bright, 
Wrought in the soul, and colored by its light ! 
Deluded man adores on bended knee 
Thy smiles, which wake each marble deity; 
The holy Virgin in the Queen of Love, 
And bows to Jesus in the form of Jove. 

Presumptuous thought! and would they dare to 
bind 
In marble limits the Eternal Mind? 
He who through space extends His boundless sway, 
Who clothes the earth, and animates the day. 
Enough for man to see his Maker rise, 
Bright in the morning sun and spread the skies; 
Swell in the mountain, o'er its giant form, 
'Mid pendant darkness, forge the whelming storm ! 
In tempests walk, and o'er the impetuous floods 
A sable horror breathe, and wave the lofty woods! 






PAPAL ROME. 27 

If seraph's ken, if angel's eye could scan 
The impalpable hypocrisy of man *, 
How would they mourn that day, in mockery proud, 
When solemn Mass enchains the prostrate crowd. 
The empty pomp, the decorated fane, 
The golden censer, and the sweeping train; 
The mitred chief, the organ's swelling sound, 
And all the show of piety around ; 
The warrior-band in flaunting robes arrayed, 
The breathless crowd, and peopled colonnade; 
The distant chant, the wreath of fire that plays 
Round every column in a glorious blaze, 
Gilds every arch, and bursts upon the sight 
In all the proud magnificence of light; 



* For neither Man nor Angel can discern 
Hypocrisy, the only evil that walks 
Invisible, except to God alone. 

Milt. Par. Lost. III. 68?. 



28 IMPERIAL AND 

The prostrate multitude, the solemn pause, 
The cannon's thunder, and the mob's applause. 

Ah! see yon wretch! what sensual fetters bind, 
What bright corruption melts away his mind! 
'Mid pomp like this, to low submission wrought, 
How rots his breast — one charnel-house of thought! 
High was his soul ere yet he stooped to dwell 
In the dark cave, or solitary cell ; 
By care unruffled, undepressed by sin, 
Splendid without, and innocent within. 

Nature once loved, now seems a living tomb, 
Lost in the convent's melancholy gloom ; 
The breezy mountain, and the morning ray, 
The lengthening landscape, and the blaze of day; 
The gentle whispers of the evening gale, 
The solemn moonlight, and the placid vale ; 
The matin anthem, and the vesper song, 
That swell from Nature's universal tongue; 



PAPAL ROME. 29 

The eternal stars that weave the choral dance 
In varying orbs, too regular for chance ! 

Oh I had he felt the heaven-descended plan, 
How social nature destined man for man ; 
Wide had he spread the blossoms of his mind 
To deck the uncultured waste of human kind! 
But when the coward heart, that dreads to dwell 
With kindred man, skulks shuddering to the cell, 
No dew it drinks, no sunshine from above, 
No balm from friendship, and no light from love; 
But quenched by damps, with darkness round itspread, 
Its drooping honors bow their languid head. 

Hail social Love ! in thy unclouded sight 
Perennial Joy still waves her purple light ! 
The beam which gilds the breaking cloud of strife, 
A hectic flush o'er the pale cheek of life, 
A transient song amid the morning sky, 
Which some lone pilgrim greets, and passes by. 



30 IMPERIAL AND 

O blessed communion of congenial hearts, 
When smiling Hope her brightest beam imparts^ 
Spreads her white wings, and sprinkles, as she flies, 
Her rosy blossoms and her rainbow dies ! 
Thrilled by thy touch, and harmonized by thee, 
Thought echoes thought, and well-tuned hearts agree; 
Man, linked to man, no more delights to roam, 
The cave his shed, the wilderness his home! 
But there the village smiles, the hawthorn shade, 
The rural lover, and the bashful maid ; 
The mellow-breathing pipe, the whispered tale 
Sighs from each glade, or floats in every gale; 
The winter hours soft dance to songs of mirth, 
And echoed laughter drowns their voice on earth. 

Behold yon glorious lamps that spread on high 
Their many-twinkling lustres round the sky ; 
Some secret charm, some voice that ever breathes, 
Joins every star in bright congenial wreaths. 



PAPAL ROME. 31 

The opening bud, that wakes its blooming gem, 
With kindred blossoms shades the mutual stem, 
Glows with one blush, exhales the same perfume, 
And smiles with sweet similitude of bloom : 
Bright o'er the surge the dolphin train pursue 
Their glorious course, and spread each golden hue; 
Till all their ever- varying tints unite, 
And Ocean glows amid one blaze of light 

Roll on, ye years! and let reviving Love 
Renew the golden chain that Nature wove, 
Which links each star, and, ever hung on high, 
Unites each soul, and binds it to the sky I 
And as some minstrel, who from vale to vale 
To savage hinds prefers his tuneful tale, 
Wakes every heart, or lulls each care to rest, 
And pours new blooms o'er each uncultured breast, 
Till Nature's light, which dawns through every strain, 
With social warmth revives the soul again; 



32 IMPERIAL, &c 

So Mind no more through partial realms shall roam, 
But the wide world shall consecrate her home! 
The Nile again through cultured meads shall glide, 
And Memphis rise upon his towery side; 
Rome live again, and fair Athena pour 
Her sweet Ilissus tuneful as before. 

Trin. Coll. Mar. 22, 1818. 



NOTES. 



Page 19, line 5. 
How Albion s warrior scorns that bloated chief. 

Caractacus. Claudius Caesar. 

Vide Tac. Ann. xii. 36. 

Page 23, line 1 4. 
The passage in the tenth Satire of Juvenal, to 
which these lines refer, must be familiar to the classi- 
cal reader. 

Page 24, line 1. 

How all mankind in one gay pageant run, 
Some to undo, and some to be undone! 

" Where, with like haste, thro' several ways they run, 
" Some to undo, and some to be undone." 



Denham. 



Page 24, line 11. 



All melt in proud and solemn march away, 
Life's transient pomp, the pageant of a day. 

Thus unlamented pass the proud away, 
The gaze of fools, and pageant of a day/' 

Pope. 



A N G E L O. 



a ^Fragment. 



A youth of poetical temperament is supposed to be 
launched into Eternity ; — and it is here attempted 
to delineate his feelings in that state of separation, 
and to describe his visit to an aerial Being — here 
called Destiny. 



& JBT ® 12 a* ® 



-Dark is that steep abyss; — and shall I stay 
Pausing upon its brink, and looking down 
Upon its womb of night? How fearfully 
It yawns ! Yet I will venture to descend 
Down these up-piled rocks — each natural step 
Precipitous, not inaccessible. — 



38 ANGELO. 

He vanished from the eye, in darkness lost, 
Impalpable, obscure: he wound his way 
From rock to rock, through gloom and all the horrors 
Of regions unexplored, and wrapped in night, 
Resounding unknown murmurs and strange noise. 
But he was unappalled; the light of mind, 
And courage not of earth burned in his breast, 
High beating with sublimest hopes. His life 
Had flowed untainted in the general stream 
Of human intercourse; for he had gazed 
On Nature, and had learned to live in her, 
Peopling with the creations of his mind 
Her wide magnificence ; the mountain peak, 
The foamy torrent, and the gathering storm, 
Black with its angriest hue; the frowning cave 
Bathed by its unfrequented fount— the whole 
Teemed with ideal wonders. He had felt 
Her secret sympathy within his breast, 
Blending his spirit with creation's soul ; 
And Nature poured her inward light to purge 



AXGELO. 3f> 

The niiud's dimmed eye. His was the book of Heaven, 

His volume was the open sky, and clouds 

And lightnings were the characters that traced 

Their mysteries on its page: amid the crash 

Of thunders he would commune with his God, 

And read His language in the elements, 

Taught by the soul within. Man may converse 

"With man in sweet communion, but the Bard 

Talks with his God, and all creation pours 

A voxe into his bosom. When earliest morn 

Smiles on the flowing universe, he hails 

The secret hre that breaks upon his mind, 

Warming it into rapture — Oh, thou God! 

Who beamest light upon the Poet's soul, 

Cleansing its eyes, all incorruptible, 

From mortal film, so that its mighty glance 

May comprehend all heaven and earth, and fix 

Beings, invisible to vulgar s'sht, 

Within its boundless orb. Thou dost imp 

One beam, one spiritual beam, illumining 



40 ANGELO. 

Nature through her recesses deep, of whom 
Thou art the life, the mind, the light, the soul; 
Amid the unclosing eye of day thy beams 
Pour their refulgence there; and when the earth 
Swells into mountains inaccessible, 
Thy grandeur walks upon the precipice, 
And thy voice thunders round its dizzy brow, 

And Angelo had communed with his God 
In all His works. It boots not here to tell 
His lineage — mighty ; for the child of song 
Is Nature's favorite son. He stood beneath 
A frowning precipice ; and on each side 
The murmurings of continuous waves proclaimed 
Some ocean rolling near. Oh ! can it be 
Eternity, upon whose bosom sit 
The Isles of Paradise? Conscious he stood 
Of being; but he felt that consciousness 
A curse. To breathe no more the general air, 
An alien from his world; to look aghast 



ANGELO. 41 

Upon a dreary void, where all is still, 

And Life's sweet voice is stifled ; to feel there 

The gale of death hang balefully ; to hear 

An ocean roll before him, while black rocks, 

Precipitous, spread out their mighty walls, 

Barring return ! And thus 'twas his to breathe, 

To mark, to feel ; to dream upon the past, 

The future view ; unable to recal 

The faded landscape of his brighter years, 

Unwilling to essay the gloom which lowered 

Upon yon horrid prospect; till his Soul 

Felt severed from herself, and, clouded, shrank 

Into her immortality, but found 

A deadlier horror there. Resolved to live 

Within her blighted feelings, desert, bare, 

Like a lone rock, she viewed amid the gloom 

The desolating prospect of distress — 

A barren wilderness. There was a beam 

Which made that darkness visible, a bea 

Unquenchable, eternal, in whose light 



42 ANGELO. 

He sat and viewed the grim and horrid waste 
Of withered hope and friendship — 'twill not die! 

Friends are the lamps which gild the soul, and shed 
Light on the heart of man, reflecting all 
The charm of virtue there ; while social converse 
Gives life to thought, and healthfully pervades 
The drooping spirit. And Angelo had friends, 
Had kindred, and was formed to love the hearts 
He warmed with friendship — but no hope he cherished 
Of sweet return ; for suddenly the abyss 
Melted away, e'en as the breath of man 
Pollutes the breeze, but leaves no taint behind. 

He stood upon a rock, self-poised, and woke 
From his dull lethargy to consciousness, 
And sank into that lethargy again! 
Again he wakened; and his eyes, upturned, 
Gazed on the living orbs which wandered round, 
Above, below, and bright on every side, 



ANGELO. 43 

Pouring their beams of gladness ; but no joy 
Flashed hope upon his heart, and without hope 
No joy. Among those living orbs he viewed 
The earth's bright sphere, well known by sympathy, 
Whose secret spell still chains the soul, which pants 
For her remembered charms. " O fair domain, 
How like a spirit walks thy chastened light, 
In its unclouded loveliness ! Fair star, 
Breathe forth thy gales upon me ! I adore 
Thy distant beam — I worship thee, fair land! 
Nurse of my friends, my kindred, and my Love. 
Oh, she hath made thy wastes a heaven — her looks 
Have breathed a soul through those enchanted 

scenes, 
Where my fond memory roves. The star of eve 
Smiled on her maiden vow; and when again 
I viewed its brightness streaming through the heavens, 
Methought I saw her radiant beauty near. 
J worship thee, thou thing of light, because 
My Love is there; and thy broad moon did shine 



44 ANGELO. 

Upon our linked souls, thine air did steal 
Along her virgin lips, thy mountains heard 
Her note—now sad; and she did glance along 
Thy torrent's foamy side, like a young star 
New breathed into creation ! " Hushed his voice 
Sunk inward, and his feelings deep alone 
Spake in his heart their natural eloquence, 
Voiceless, but understood. 

Yes, he had found, 
Far from the sweet relationship of man, 
Brothers and kindred in the universe, 
Music in mute creation : and he felt 
His spirit linked to every star, in bonds 
Of sweet affection. Here he saw, or deemed 
He saw a paradise of love and bliss 
Amid a glorious sphere, whose placid beams 
More smiled upon the soul than charmed the eye; 
Like a fair maid expiring, o'er whose cheeks 
Beauty with chastened lustre gleams, but Heaven, 
And all Heaven's hope, burns in her kindling eye. 



ANGELO. 45 

While thus he mused contemplative, a voice 
Like distant thunder, when it swells upon 
Continuous mounts, winding its murmuring course 
Through Echo's unawakened caves and glades, 
Unruffled by the peal — a secret voice, 
As though it flowed from every star at once, 
Sank on his soul within. " This realm is mine ; 
And 1 am Destiny! Thy soul, vain youth, 
Is bound by secret chains — by fetters forged, 
Invisible, above these skies, in fires 
Kindled by breath which kindled all the heavens! 
And darest thou hither wend thy path unknown, 
Amid this horrid wilderness? " The youth, 
Firm, undismayed, replied — " Thy chains are hard, 
Proud Despot ! but they may not bind the soul 
Which triumphs over Death. The immortal mind, 
All centered in herself, spurns and derides 
Thy bondage, unappalled; and yet may rise 
Up in her own sublimity, and mock 
Thy feeble efforts, and may laugh to scorn 



46 ANGELO. 

Thy tyrant-frown, and vain supremacy. 
Away! thou may est not quench the mind, nor bid 
Her free unconquered energies to quail, 
Abashed, to brutal power — it may not be; 
Armed with untainted conscience, she will walk 
E'en in the shade of death, and fear no harm !" 

" Bold youth!" the Voice exclaimed, "I know 
thee free 
From fear as from despair, well fit to view 
The wonders which I will display. — This dome 
Of ever-shining orbs is my domain ; 
I am their centre, and they roll about me; 
I am their god, and they all worship me. 
Each star is governed by my voice, and all 
Roll in the maze my finger marks, and clothe 
This hall with light. Over futurity, 
An unsubstantial reign, my sway extends; 
And I can call unreal worlds to bloom 
Amid their young existence!" E'er the youth, 



ANGELO. 47 

With wild but mute surprise, might look assent, 
A light gleamed forth, Jike morning's sullen lamp 
Upon a cloudy mountain. Suddenly, 
Within a web of many-colored mist, 
A beauteous form stood motionless. She smiled 
With every softened charm of hue, which clotlied 
All her aerial beauties ; and around 
The breathing texture flashed forth gloriously * 
The living light within : the blooms of Heaven, 
Wafting their nectared fragrance, flushed her cheek, 
Bright with the soul of rapture; but the gift 
Of Heaven was feminine grace, and loveliness 
That walks in Virtue's light. Pausing she stood 
Upon creation's brink, a lovely being, 
Fresh from the fount of life, of air, and light, 
Unburied in her breathing tomb of clay. 

" That is a woman's soul,'' the Voice exclaimed, 
" Destined for earth ; this very night her sire 
Will kiss her unpolluted lip, and deem 



48 ANGELO. 

Her infant features fair: and she will grow 
To womanhood, and win the heart of man, 
Softening it into love. Her blandishments 
The conqueror will conquer, and o'erthrow 
Triumph amid his high career." 

Behold! 
Another form, slow rising; but his brow 
Is different far, ungentle, proud, and high, 
Towering with sour disdain, where Darkness sits 
Sublime and terrible ; around him lower 
Clouds, gloomy clouds, scarce pervious, and his breast 
Is a dark thunder-storm, the horrid seat 
Of many lightnings; stern and severe he seemed, 
Scowling a bitter glance upon the forms 
That flitted by — a glance where they might read 
Resentment yet to come. But soon his brow, 
Soon as he marked that lovelier one, grew mild, 
And softened at her charm : but her pure beam 
Sank not within ; for there the naked thought 
Kindled its future hell, and passion foams 



ANGELO. 49 

Within the bosom's labyrinth — a wild 
Destroying monster, breathing vapors round, 
Pestiferous, noxious to the infant bloom 
Of feeling withering there. " A Conqueror!" 
The Voice exclaimed, " a conqueror that will be, 
There stands — a phantom to appal mankind : 
That soul will climb, like rising fame, o'er fate, 
Grappling with circumstance; and it will quell 
The world, high riding upon death's pale steed, 
Conquering and to conquer." Both vanished, 
About to taste, upon a sphere untried, 
The varied springs of life — 

There stands a vaze, 
Whose adamantine frame is decked by Time 
With all the spoils of art ; the elements 
Have joined to make it noble; round it glows* 
With sculptured life, the pride of ages gone — 
Athena's pride, the ardent mind of Rome, 
And Britain's mingled might. There Academe 



50 ANGELO. 

Blooms with her freshest green; the Spirit of Greece 

Shines in his car sublime ; the rapid steeds 

Hurl thunder from their feet, and from their eyes 

Dart light upon mankind. The Genius stood, 

August though youthful, and his very smile 

Was life and ever-living joy; his locks, 

Bound by the civic wreath alone, flowed down 

In airy liberty; damsels and youths 

Danced round the car. But far before the crowd 

A bard was walking in the light of song, 

An old, old man: onward he walked serene; 

The godhead of his soul was on his brow, 

And Nature's light, upon his bosom dawning, 

Illumed the harp within, to breathe aloud 

The music of the mind, like Memnpn's- note, 

Hymning the golden morn : and he might lure 

Accumulated myriads with his voice ; 

Homer his name. Upon a cloud-capt rock, 

Mid storms that pour the lofty eloquence 



ANGELO. 5i 

Of Heaven in thunder, Pindar strikes the lyre 
With frantic hand; high rolls his speaking eye, 
Like a tempestuous wave, that will not sleep 
When Ocean's spirit foams, and skies flash round 
The red bolt quivering there. Now turn thine eye, 
Survey that triad next— Their wreaths are fresh, 
Clothed with the brightness of the Muse; the first, 
Father of stately Tragedy— his mien 
Bold and gigantic ; in his hand a torch 
Burns; and his wild eye reads the heavens, and all 
The abyss below the earth, from whence he drags 
Furies to fright, and demons to appal, 
And all the horrid progeny of hell, 
To awe, to thrill the soul. On the other side, 
Shakespear with Milton linked, in converse sweet, 
Walked in their immortality, and roved 
Through bright ideal worlds, which beamed with 

light 
Reflected from the mind— that holy light 



52 ANGELO. 

Above the range of mutability, 
Above the sphere of ever-changing stars. 
And Spencer there the liberal smile repaid 
Of Sydney with his song; Spencer redeemed 
From the smooth courtier's heartless tyranny. 

Such was each charm without; within the vaze 
Swells the bright tide of immortality, 
Sparkling like liquid diamond; each spirit, 
Ere breathed into creation, bathed amid 
That living fountain, and secured her gift — 
The life which never dies. But some there be, 
Spirits of rank superior, and of mould 
More glorious to the view ; such leave behind 
Their shadows on the wave, indelible, 
Each awful form impressing: while the rest 
Rise deathless from the stream, but leave no trace 
Of immortality — such may not live 
In song eternized, or o'er memory spread 



ANGELO. 53 

The sunshine of a name. 

There is a form 
Bending upon the wave, its noble mien 
Clothed with all the Mind's divinity; sublime, 
Majestic, he surveys with conscious smile 
His bright immortal image, shining serene 
Upon its liquid breast, like morning's ray 
The ocean-wave adorning. Proud he stood, 
And felt the mental light burst forth, and spread 
Around the cloud-wove mantle, which enclosed 
That living beam, a million rainbow-hues, 
Pouring each blent variety of charm 
With an harmonious brightness: Heaven had spread 
Each mellowing tint and sunny glow to clothe 
That soul with its own loveliness; there grew 
The infant energies of thought, which rolled 
Their thousand eyes, and waved their thousand wings, 
Burning to soar — Yet Scrutiny, abashed, 
Grew blinded by the fire of soul, which blazed 
Concealing the fair heaven, that burns unseen 



54 ANGELO. 

Beneath the brightness of that breast. Sublime 

He stood in conscious majesty, surveying 

The sculptured forms which deck that vase, like stars 

Shining amid the night, " Behold," exclaimed 

The Voice, " a Poet's soul — behold the fire, 

Unquenchable by care, and unrestrained 

By the grim clouds that soon will burst to veil 

Its morning lustre. He will draw from grief 

A strain to soothe the world, and make the mind 

As tuneable as Nature's lining voice, 

Harmonious as the innumerable notes 

Of Springs reviving melody. His song 

Will cheer like light from Heaven, and men will walk 

In its full glory," Vanishing, he left 

An empty space; and all the vapory reign, 

The clouded future, vanished like a dream. 

" Now list sublimer things," the Voice exclaimed, 
" There was a war in Heaven; and Lucifer 
Fell from his height of glory, like a flash 



AJfGELO. 55 

Of long continued lightning. Ere he burst 

Upon the gulph of utter woe, he paused 

Upon this rock: long, long he lay supine, 

Until his spite, with gathered energy, 

Prepared to hurl its renovated bolt 

On every blooming prospect, staining all, 

Defacing, desolating. Long he lay, 

His beam of godhead quenched, and o'er his brow, 

Most idiot-like, hung Lethargy, until 

That snake-like feeling, which provokes the soul 

To envious rage, awoke ; and in his heart 

Churning the madness of its venom, glared 

With its stern basilisk eye: goaded, he waked 

As from exhaustion, and surveyed these orbs 

Not silent in their course. " Oh, ye bright spheres^ 

Fair emblems of the scenes that gladdened once 

These clouded eyes, all bathing in the stream 

Of new existence, hail! Fair, fair ye seem, 

And unpolluted, while the eye of God 

Kindles each beam refulgent; and ye bear 



56 ANGELO. 

His secret impress, without cloud or stain, 

Mirrors of all his glories! Pure Creation, 

How beautiful thou art! Pure effluence 

Of the Eternal Mind! I once was pure; 

Like thee was stainless, walking in the light 

Of my own purity, and felt no cloud 

Press on this spiritual form; all soul, I roamed 

From orb to orb, unshackled, unbedimmed, 

Boundless my might, my glory unobscured! 

But virtue lost is brightness lost, and mind, 

When once obscured is prisoned — Conscience binds 

With secret chains, indissoluble chains, 

Forged in hell-fire; each thought, that burns to fly 

Far from its viewless bond, but waves in vain 

Its wing for flight, until despair becomes 

More desperate. Bright with unreal hues, 

Fair vision! thou must fade, thy charms decay, 

Thy loveliness in one dissolving smile 

Must melt away! For I am here; my touch 

Is death ; pollution waits my very shade, 



ANGELO. 57 

Withering whate'er it rests upon." 

He rose, 
And Jo! o'er earth, and many a neighbouring orb, 
His shadow fell ; and instantly the ray, 
The spiritual beam of intellect, the soul 
Of beauty sank. The earth, whose substance once 
Was like a gem in Nature's treasury, 
Sparkling sublime, glimmered obscurely now, 
Casting a dubious light: her blooms, which smiled 
Like flowers of Heaven, shorn of their glory, mourned 
The ray of glory lost, in which they grew, 
Exchanging loveliness for loveliness, 
Eternal in their prime; and every hue 
Proclaimed how healthfully the blush of spring 
Burned o'er each charm. Now subject to each change, 
They shudder at the blast, and drop their leaves, 
And mingle with the soil. The running stream 
Was once pure light, such as when Hesper's ray 
Softens at lover's song, in evening mild. 
The pure blue skies reflected smiled, and breathed 



58 ANGELO. 

The charm of that serenity which lulls 

All Heaven, when high Deliberation holds 

Her seraph peers; the waters rolled unswayed 

By the capricious moon, who smiled in love 

Upon her sister orb, mingling in sweet 

Society with her the friendly beam. 

Not immelodious rose the morning bland, 

Like an unfolding dream of love; and eve, 

Spangled with stars, awakened to the charm 

Of animated song, and felt no cloud 

Damp o'er her sparkling brow. The breeze poured 

forth 
Unceasing music, and each cavern breathed 
Harmonious echoes; and creation seemed 
One mighty organ swelling into song, 
One glory-giving pile. Amid the dome 
Of Heaven the morning anthem rose, and burst 
From star to star, resounding, till the peal 
Consenting bosoms filled; and angel tongues 
Mellowed that echoed harmony, until 



ANGELO. 59 

The note of praise rang through the universe, 
Sweet incense for the secret shrine of God. 

But Lucifer, in all his gloom, hath cast 
His shadow ; and the brightness, half eclipsed, 
Grows ashy pale with terror; and the charm 
And bloom of that perpetual spring are crashed 
By Time's dark car, yoked to the winged might 
Of rushing elements; instead of song — 
Wild Discord, like the funeral owl, proclaims 
Fallen Nature, flapping her hoarse-sounding wings 
Over the solitude. 

And Lucifer 
Smiled on the desolation : but his hour 
Of triumphing is past. There is a light 
Pouring the accumulating ray around 
This wilderness of worlds; the hallowed beam 
Spreads on his demon eye. Why shrinks his frame 
With sudden fear! — 'Tis God he looks upon. 
Yet in that ocean of spread light appears 



60 ANGELO. 

No form — the holy presence burns; the eye, 
The unenchanted eye of God looked down, 
Himself all eye ! More widely now it spreads 
Upon the fiend's averted cheek, who flies 
Like a black storm at day-break; till at length 
The awful presence in its glory roused 
All its awakened majesty of light, 
And rapidly he sank within the abyss. 



THE NEGRESS'S ADDRESS 



SHADOW. 



The office of the Fetiche is supposed by the negroes 
of Benin to be performed by the shadow of every 
man y which they believe to be a real being t that in 
another world shall give a true account of all his 
actions." — See Murray's enlarged edition of Ley- 
den's Discoveries in Africa, vol. ii. p. 296. 



5ENB@IB1B3S*S &1BIIHS1B8& 



Oh, wilt thou thus for ever stray, 
Companion of my weary way, 
In all thy melancholy mood 
To charm me mid my solitude! 

Come, tell me why, whene'er I look 
On the fair wave of yonder brook- 
Why fall thy tears, whene'er I bend 
To weep upon its bank, my friend! 



&4 the Negress's address 

Eacli tear my bitter woes recalling, 
Linking our sister-hearts while fallings 
Thine bleeds, while other breasts forget 
My woes amid their own regret. 
Perchance thou art some child of air, 
Breathed in those realms unstained by care, 
Where I have heard blest spirits stray 
Perennial hours of bliss away; 
And thence, perchance, some prouder sprite 
Hath hurled thee from thy bowers of light, 
And chained thee to the wanderer's feet, 
Companion of her drear retreat, 
That thus our kindred fates agree 
To weep in secret sympathy! 

Then I will love thee, Spirit dear! 
And we will shed the mutual tear; 
And sdmetimes shall a smile illume 
Our memory's dreary waste of gloom; 



TO HER SHADOW* 65 

A twilight that may smile upon 
The desert course we yet may run ! 
O ! ne'er of mutual love bereave me, 
Dear Spirit, never, never leave me! 

Yet every night I bid thee shed, 
Around my mothers humble bed, 
Dreams of her young and withering daughter, 
Who pines beyond the dark blue water. 
The leaves I culled to soothe her head, 
A pillow for her brow, are dead ; 
Their fragrant breath, their drops of dew, 
Their morning charms have vanished too: 
Far different is the couch I press 
Of servitude and bitterness ; 
Whose venomed stings will wither never, 
A couch that wounds the heart for ever 

Then, gently glide to yonder grot, 
Where lives a youth yet unforgot! 



6*6* Negress's address. 

That grot was laved by Nature's hand, 

With living founts mid hills of sand ; 

Where once 'twas mine from purest spring, 

The water for my love to bring; 

To pluck the coolest fruit, and pour 

The honey from its sweetest store ; 

To cleanse his rapid dart, but. ne'er 

To shed one drop of venom there. 

Tell him, within my bosom's gloom, 

One flower, one cherished flower, may bloom ; 

Tell him, within its blighted shade 

My love a lonely grot has made, 

And pours its springs, and blooms to bless 

My heart's unvaried wilderness 



THE POET'S LAMENT. 



& ^Fragment. 



A Poet, as he dies, is supposed to dedicate his last notes 
to his Mistress. 



®sa® jp®aip*B &&aasnb 



U pon his withering cheek hath grown, 
In gradual change, the hue of stone; 
Within his hollow eye appears 
A fire still unrefreshed by tears, 
All languid, almost motionless; 
Within his hand a lyre was strung, 
And oft a faint note of distress 
Died murmuring on his tongue. 



70 

He strikes the lyre; the numbers know 
The sound of death, and solemn flow; 
They know the cygnet note is nigh — 
Ere yet he close his glimmering eye. 

" Fair Pera was the loveliest maid 
That e'er by bower or fountain played, 
For Nature's fairest thought designed, 
Of purest mould her youthful mind. 
The stream she loved, and oft partook 
The coolness of the shaded brook; 
And oh f she seemed some Being bright 
Congealed in heaven of earliest light. 
I viewed her near yon stream reclined, 
Curtained by bowers that woo the wind, 
Pensive and soft; and not in vain 
My lyre took up the natural strain. 
The tear was melting in her eye, 
And burst mid many a broken sigh, 



THE POET'S LAMENT. 71 

And echoing to my passion's tone, 
A strain was wakened of her own. 

" Why, why recal her faded cheek, 
She languished long, she drooped and died! 
Thus melts away the lingering streak, 
The last which gilds dun evening's pride. 

" She was the child of thought refined, 
The victim of a lofty mind ; 
She gazed on visions till she seemed 
To fix the very forms she dreamed ; 
She gazed on visions till they left 
A breast all withered and bereft. 
She faded like some outcast flower, 
Uncherished in her lonely bower. 

" With genius cursed, the feeling breast 
Still bears the brand of dark unrest,- 



7 2 THE POET'S LAMENT. 

At fancied wrong, at cold disdain, 
It quivers with the nerve of pain ; 
It throbs in Life's blank desert, where 

Some demon ever taints the air. 

* # * * 

* f # * 

" But soon she died! Enough—this spot 
Lives with her memory unforgot. 
A ray from Cynthia's light advances, 
And o'er the tender streamlet glances; 
And gales that waft Elysium there, 
Wake with her soul the quickened air; 
For oft amid the Moon-beam's slumber 
My gentle Pera went to number 
The pebbles in the murmuring brook, 
So white as though each stone partook 
Her virgin nature; 'tis a spot 
That lives with her yet unforgot. 



THE POET'S LAMENT. 73 

Her spirit mingles with the stream, 
And kindles in yon mellowed beam; 
And ever and anon the breeze 
Her image wafts through yonder trees, 
Then bears it in a mournful strain 
Back to this widowed heart again. 

*' I hear her song; but ah! her lute, 
Her soul-fraught lips have long been mute! 
Still, still beneath yon bower she lingers, 
And o'er the strings her fairy fingers 
Twinkle like beams that idly play 
O'er the sweet fount that dies away. 
But, O! 'tis nought— an endless sleep 
Hangs on her eye-lids long and deep. 



THE KITTEN 



^■^■■■(■^■^H 






vans KiKPiPiBKk 



Written at the request of a Lady. 



XT eace to the Kitten and to thee, 

Lady ! to whom these strains belong ; 
And may that peace more lasting be, 

More grateful than thy Poet's song : 
Still may thine eyes, with mirthful gaze, 

Beam on thy sportive favorite near; 
And ever be their gentle blaze 

Unquenched, unsullied by a tear! 



78 THE KITTEN. 

The living fire of eyes like thine, 

Each heart to holy love must win ; 
For all their radiant glories shine, 

Attempered to a light within — 
Religion's pure, unclouded ray, 

The eternal sunshine of the mind, 
That brightens all our future way, 

And gilds the path we leave behind ! 

Though not in frolic, yet in bliss, 

Still may thy life serenely flow, 
With many an hour as bright as this, 

To smile upon a world of woe : 
And though thy cheek must soon resign 

The transient bloom that florished there; 
The immortal mind will ever shine, 

More pure, and beautiful, and fair. 



THE KITTEN. 79 

And though my mute, inglorious tongue, 

As tuneless as the grave should be, 
This heart, by feeling ever strung, 

"Would wake its tenderest note to thee: 
And Friendship, as she loves to sweep 

Each trembling chord with rapturous swell, 
Shall breathe thy name, not loud, but deep, 

Within the bosom's secret cell! 



THE SAME SUBJECT. 



L sing the Kitten — theme not unadorned 

By Moralists and Bards, exalted names! 

The glossy skin of Gray's blithe favorite still 

Shines with a deathless lustre, and her fate 

Survives in song: and old Montaigne could watch, 

Studious of ease and unambitious lore, 

With gentle eye his furred companion's sports, 

Retired from folly of a graver cast 

To moralize alone. Then let the Fair, 

Who bids me sing, upheld by loftiest names, 

Continue still to pat her favorite's cheek, 



82 THE KITTEN. 

To greet its gambols with a smiling eye, 

And laugh, that knows no guile; for Innocence, 

Delighted still with innocent pursuits, 

Can cull from that at which grave fools may scoff, 

A pleasure far more rational than their's. 

There is a charm in Nature, which pervades 
The whole creation; and in one great chain 
Links all together, the sublime and small: 
Her universal frame may boast alike 
The lion and the gnat; alike sustains 
The gay Narcissus and the primrose pale, 
The soaring eagle and the gentle wren; 
And from her wide and general breast emerge 
The falcon and the dove, the rosy light 
Of orient skies and evening's misty shades, 
The flaming sun and modest-beaming moon : 
One hand upholds them all; the shining heavens, 
With all their bright diversity of stars, 



THE KITTEN. 83 

And the coy beauties of the daisied mead ; 
And he, that reads the volume Nature spreads, 
Will gaze on each variety, that forms 
Her mighty plan ; and cull from each a store 
Of wisdom, which the schools may teach in vain. 

Therefore the Kitten is no trifling theme: 
Whether with back upreared, and gaze askance, 
She meditates surprise; or, bold and fierce, 
With eye of fire and violence of spring, 
She grasps the paper toy that dangles near. 
Oft have I watched her m her gamesome mood, 
Tossing the ball aloft, now spreading wide 
Her bat-like feet, and strengthening every nerve 
To strike it round and round, until she seems 
Delirious with the whirl ; but with wild eye, 
Insatiate still, and impotently fierce, 
The mimic war pursuing, till fatigued 
With this her pleasant toil, she sinks at length, 



84 THE KITTEN. 

Purring herself to sleep; her gentle feet, 
Sheathing the terrors of her claws, soft bent 
Beneath the velvet of her snowy breast; 
E'en as some languid Beauty, wearied out 
With public admiration, clouds in sleep 
The arrowy lightnings of her eyes, and dreams 
Of mightier conquests for the dawning day: 
And thus the Kitten lies; and still pursues 
Her frolics in her slumbers, while at ease 
She spreads her varied colors to the sun — 
Tints intermingled, delicately blent, 
Unsullied whiteness with the hue of gold! 
Oh ! that a skin so soft, that hues so bright, 
Should veil a tiger's heart ! the sport she loves 
Is but the emblem of a future war; 
When the dun mouse, with palpitating heart, 
Shall silent steal into the pantry's cell 
To soothe the hungry brood, that hope in vain 
The intercepted cheese. But has not Man 



THE KITTEN. 85 

His gambols too, his sports that speak a soul 
Athirst for blood? Go, eye the clamorous pack 
O'er yonder field, the scarlet-vested troop, 
The foamy steed, that, o'er the opposing mound, 
Leaps like a torrent thundering from on high, 
And scattering all around its silver dew! 
Lo ! the hid rowel wounds his generous side, 
That weeps a bloody stream ! the very soul 
Of slaughter burns in every breast, and glares 
In every eye, intent on murderous deeds. 
These are the sports of Man, the hare his foe! 
And gentler Woman, though sometimes she dare 
The perils of the chase, yet oftener far, 
With vigilant and circumspect pursuit, 
She tracks the tyrant's heart, retiring now 
With shy and virgin modesty, and now, 
Bold by degrees, she makes her final spring, 
And darts upon her victim ; till the heart 
Bleeds at each pore, and agonized with all 



86 THE KITTEN. 

The tortures of caprice, and female pride, 
And arrogant disdain, is quite o'erwhelmed: 
Then farewell, generous fame! farewell, ye hopes! 
Ye glorious hopes, that, like the dews of Heaven, 
Nourished the opening mind of flowering youth, 
And gave it all its brightness, doomed, alas, 
To feel its blossoms languish and decay ! 

Away — away — with thoughts austere as these! 
Within the breast of yonder gamesome thing 
Can love of rapine rage, and fell desire 
Of slaughter yet untried? No—as she lies 
Sunning her charms in youthful Beauty's eye, 
Soft pillowed on her bosom, she must steal 
Congenial tenderness, forgetting soon 
The savage instinct which impels her race 
To murder and destroy : such virtue lives 
In female bosoms, and the tender gaze 
Of female softness; such are Beauty's charms 






THE KITTEN. 87 

To tame the fierce, and humanize the wild! 

Oh! let that Fair One's praise, sincerely sung, 
Adorn this verse, unworthy though it be 
To laud such charms, and breathe so pure a name. 
Though fair as the unsullied moon, her mind 
Is lovelier than her face; the chastened light 
Of virtue lives in all her rosy smiles, 
Her looks all eloquence, her eyes all fire; 
Such looks the cheek of Innocence might wear 
In her voung loveliness and virgin bloom! 
For friendship made, because her heart is warm; 
For holy converse framed, because her soul 
Burns with a fire divine; and truth, as sweet 
As Heaven's own manna, lingers on her lips; 
In her, the social charities of life 
Shine ever mild; in her the golden link 
And secret sympathies of heavenly love 
Are twined round every feeling: and although 



88 THE KITTEN. 

The Sage may trace the Godhead in His works, 
His smile in morning's brightness, and His frown 
In whirlwinds and in storms, supremely wise; 
Yet she, meek lover of her Saviour's name, 
Silently venerates the living light 
In each Believer's breast, and views her God 
Enthroned more glorious there, His spiritual seat! 

Witness, ye scenes! how oft her footsteps trace 
The lonely cottage; how exulting Vice 
Flees at her presence, and the intemperate laugh 
Of atheist folly softens to a smile 
Of piety and love; how oft the tongue 
Of rosy childhood lisps her name in prayer! 
Still live, ye scenes! at her approach rejoice, 
For ever bright and gay! There seems to breathe 
A charm from her that makes all nature glad, 
And prodigal of bloom; the light of youth 
Beams in her eye and blushes on her cheek, 



THE KITTEN. 89 

And her all eloquent and living soul 

Speaks out through every feature — yea, she seems 

The young pervading Spirit of the place, 

Whose influence quickens all the breathing scene, 

And, as a stream, its unambitious course 

In secret winds along. Oh ! may her life 

Flow on as silent, as serene, and calm; 

May conscience, pure as the unclouded sky, 

Gild all its tide; there may the Spirit brood, 

The mystic dove descend, and heavenly peace, 

Bright as the vision of a dying saint, 

And holy as the infant Saviour's dream, 

Calm every wild tumultuous wave to rest! 

Augusts, 1818. 



POEMS. 



TO MY HOPE. 



ADDRESSED TO MYRA. 



J. he sun declines, and all the heavens 

Are melting into night; 
The Moon puts forth her majesty, 

Her loveliness of light. 

There is a cloud, whose silvery fold 
Hath wrapped yon twinkling star, 

That beams all radiant in its orb, 
Amid its sapphire car. 



94 POEMS. 

And though along the heavens it smile, 

Though earth receive its ray ; 
Soon, soon the unreal vapor breaks, 

And vanishes away. 

And thus, my Hope, through passion's sky. 

Didst thou adventurous spring, 
And through the starry heaven of Love, 

Didst wave thy purple wing : 

And wilt thou fade, and like the cloud 

That melts in air away; 
Oil! wilt thou sink to nothingness, 

Though blessed by Myra's ray. 

July, 1816. 



TO MYRA, 



ON HER RECOVERY FROM INDISPOSITION, IN 

June 1816. 



O myra! on thy cheek I view 
Fair Health resume her roseate hue, 
Thrilling the heart with every measure 
Of mirth, of harmony and pleasure. 

'Twas sweet to mark each rising* charm, 
With more than mortal beauty warm, 
And feel, mid each awakening grace, 
The enchantment of that magic face. 



96 POEMS. 

Yet Beauty's light, though fair it beam, 
O'er all may spread the transient gleam, 
And Beauty's star will but illume 
A paradise of mortal bloom: 
But, Myra, still the lingering ray 
Will charm not, melt not, death away ! 

But fair and glorious, pure and bright, 
The mind will burn with quenchless light ; 
The mind will smile with living bloom, 
Though all be dreariness and gloom ; 
Though every dimple, every grace 
Fade on thy lip, and fly thy face, 
And mirrors to thine eye confess 
The ruins of thy loveliness, 
The mind will win from dark decay 
No vain Elysium of a day. 



AN EPISTLE 



TO MY BROTHER IN LAW, A. T. TATLOW, ESQ. 



JDeep in these shades and solitary groves, 
Where reverend Cam in native dulness roves, 
Where the Muse sprinkles her reluctant bloom 
O'er the wide waste of academic gloom, 
Each thought, my Brother, spreads its rapid wings, 
And bears thy cherished image as it springs. 

Canst thou forget how oft, elate with pride, 
The golden hours we wiled on Derwent's side, 



98 POEMS. 

Till the faint smile of parting day betrayed 

A lingering gleam o'er every bower and shade? 

O ! then the soul broke forth in native light, 

The gloom all vanished, and each scene grew bright; 

Won from the mass of dull chaotic clay, 

A world of thought was kindled by its ray. 

How sweet, my Brother, rolled each magic hour, 

Which charmed us both! how sweet that mighty 

power, 
Which bade us feel the bright creations roll, 
Peopled with glorious thoughts, around the soul ; 
That waked their sunshine, that inspired their bloom, 
And raised a heaven mid dreariness and gloom. 

Yes— could I borrow the enchanter's glass, 
And bid those hours in long procession pass, 
These ravished eyes should dwell on scenes, which 

Care 
Hath stainless left, that Joy might linger there. 



POEMS. 99 

And now, e'en now the golden minutes spring, 
And Memory charms them to her magic ring ; 
Clothes with its former hues the smiling whole, 
And breathes through buried scenes a living soul. 
The nights we passed were nights that might re- 
deem, 
From Passion's cloud, the soul's immortal beam, - 
And lure the heart, when Reason's feast began, 
From all the vulgar ties of vulgar man. 

How dwells that heart in all its loneliness, 
From foul corruption won, and pale distress, 
On wakened thoughts, and visions that illume 
Each faded hour with more than mortal bloom 
There, in romantic dreariness of pride, 
It scorns communion with ought else beside, 
And hates e'en Virtue's light, should Virtue gleam 
On Man's dull breast with cold, reflected beam. 



100 POEMS. 

Once more, ye days — and oh! ye nights once 
more, 
Those happy scenes that haunt my dreams, restore! 
Dreams, that embody in my mind again 
Each crisped brook, high rock, and russet plain. 
And thou, O Moon, resume thy waning hue, 
Wake all thy charms, and bid them live anew, 
Till my rapt mind's invisible ascent 
Soar to the highest heaven's high firmament! 

Well might the Sage*, in such an hour, aspire 
On wings of thought to win ethereal fire, 
Yon spangled worlds the light of soul to give, 
And bid in every star an angel live! 



Plato. 



POEMS. 101 

Well might he feel, that won from care and strife, 
There bloomed the unfading bowers of bliss and 

life- 
Well might he feel that every sapphire sphere, 
Which lured his soul, might win her lingering ear, 
And pour from heaven that mute expressive lay, 
To charm each thought from darkness and decay. 

Cambridge, Oct. 1816. 



TO 



JOHN ST. MAWE TATLOW, 



MY NEPHEW. 



uweet Infant! if amid thy slumbers, 

And dreams that know no stain, 
My lyre may pour her tenderest numbers, 

And hail thee with her strain ; 
Perchance the rustic note denying 

To win the smile or tear, 
May waft one benediction, sighing 

Thy peaceful pillow near. 



104 FORMS. 

The guardian angel hovering by thee, 

To shield thy youth from wrong, 
Will breathe that echoed blessing nigh thee, 

All mellowed into song : 
Oh, he will quit his realm of brightness, 

Thy opening mind to tend, 
And o'er thy soul of heavenly whiteness, 

The hues of virtue blend ! 

In sooth 'tis sweet in distant vision 

On future scenes to glance, 
On skies that spread their tints Elysian 

In wide and bright expanse. — 
I view, I view, in prophet slumber, 

Full many a joyous hour, 
And years that twine too fast to number 

For thee full many a flower. 



POEMS. 105 

Yes, lovely Babe ! the world before thee 

Is opened broad and fair; 
A Mother now that lingers o'er thee, 

Will soothe each cankering care; 
A Father's hand will shield and guide thee, 

His prayer will breathe for thee; 
A Friend shall ever walk beside thee, 

That friend shall live in me. 

And though the world unjustly spurn thee, 

Still art thou ne'er alone; 
Oh, to thy mind's communion turn thee, 

And its tribunal own ! 
Though clouds should roll o'er friendship plighted, 

And shade Life's various way, 
Yet thought will cheer the breast, all blighted, 

With one reviving ray. 



106 POEMS. 

And oh, the tyrant world's dominion, 

And false associates fly, 
The Soul in vain will stretch her pinion 

To make that cage her sky ; 
Then Thought with Thought, in high communion, 

Will know no earthly change; 
And Heaven, that smiles upon their union, 

Will widen all their range. 

February, 1817. 



TO MIRANDA. 



WRITTEN AT NIGHT 



Again, Miranda, yet again, 
My soul inspires the rustic strain, 
Throbs while its tumult thrills the lyre, 
And all its thoughts are winged with fire. 

Enough, dear Maid! 1 once was blest, 
For then I held a peaceful breast; 
The web of mystic Thought I wove, 
In wild Enchantment's secret grove j 



108 POEMS. 

And there Ideal Beauty rose 

Amid my dreams of calm repose, 

And every hue from sense refined 

She borrowed from the light of mind: 

I loved the brightness of her face, 

I worshipped each celestial grace, 

Each living wonder that attended 

Her charms, though ever varying, blended, 

And spread, while lingering o'er the whole, 

The life of thought, the flame of soul. 

Oh, from what sphere, what magic height, 
Didst thou descend, fair form of light! 
Amid the living orbs that glide 
Supreme through Ether's boundless tide, 
There beams a star of liquid light, 
Than all the radiant host more bright — 
Thy world perchance—for oh, like thee, 
It smiles amid its purity ! 



POEMS. 109 

The immortal ray which gave it birth, 
Redeemed thy quickened soul from earth; 
That light which bathed its orb in day, 
From chaos charmed thy mind away ; 
That voice which bade its sphere to roll 
In music round the vocal pole, 
Gave to thy breast, from passion free, 
The soul of heavenly harmony. 



TO A LADY SINGING. 



JLady! the hallowed strains I hear, 
Are such as charm an Angel's ear, 
When, journeying on some high intent, 
He walks the starry firmament! 

Lady! the kindling strains which bind 
With magic spell my heart and mind, 
Such feelings wake, such hopes renew, 
That shed o'er life the brightest hue, 
And bid that varied world assume 
One glimpse of Heaven's immortal bloom. 



112 POEMS. 

Oh ! music breathed from lips like thine 

The bosom fires but to refine; 

From passion's boisterous storm can free 

Each feeling tuned to harmony ; 

And all its tones, though diverse, blending, 

The heart to its wild magic bending, 

When every strain that woos the wind, 

Proclaims the music of the mind. 

Lady! that music ne'er will die 
When lyres on ruined heaps shall lie, 
When Echo hears her grots among 
No more the liquid melting song: 
For it was breathed, ere wreathes of light 
Grew silver on the brow of Night, 
And it shall ever live, and cheer 
Thy sister spirits in some happier sphere! 



SONNET. 



Hence, Fancy! hence; thine atmosphere remove; 
Let life appear as life, and man as man; 
Let the cold heart no more dissemble love, 
And woman's sway would dwindle to a span ! 
Soon would the world's bright pageants melt away, 
The palace moulder into kindred earth ; 
And mountains, humbled into humblest clay, 
Would mock the cheat which gave their grandeur 
birth: 






114 POEMS. 

Nought would be lovely then, save what might live 

When domes, and rocks, and worlds, in ruins lie, 

The soul alone, and God, that will revive 

And clothe it with immortal majesty, 

And bid it on His boundless bosom soar, 

When stars shall fade, and join the glittering dance no 



* Os e^wxEv olarpoc vvkti, 

YlEpix.oo-iJu'tx.v xopeixv. 

Synesii Hymnus II. 



TO Z- 



Oft, near some stream by antique moss surrounded, 

I sit me down to muse in idle mood ; 
Till slow, at evening's close, the wind hath sounded 

The sun's retreat beyond the forest rude : 
And while the nightingale from yonder spray, 

Like some enchantress through the shades of 
night, 
Charms the pale Moon to clear her brow and stray 

Amid her solitary walk of light; 



116 POEMS. 

Till slowly bending from his crystal tower. 

The silver-shining Hesper smiles above; 
Witness, how oft! of many a conscious bower, 

Vocal to each lament of youthful love. 
O glorious orb ! supreme o'er worlds that roll 

In the dark bosom of the star-clad sky; 
What fields of light may wait the unspotted soul, 

What chaplets bathed in Heaven's immortal dye? 
What sounds may linger in thy peopled sphere 

Where all are Angels, and where all are young; 
Where secret echoes charm each listening ear, 

And Music's magic breathes from every tongue ? 
There, Lady! there; within that sphere enshrined, 

Unchained from earth, unsullied by decay> 
Serene in youth, thy pure, immortal mind, 

Will pour a lovelier light through every ray. 
Fair light of mind ! whose hidden springs impart 

To dead creation all that makes it fair; 
Which flow unseen amid the conscious heart, 
That ever feels the heaven it hopes to share. 






POEMS. 117 

Age, frozen Age, will quench the glow of youth, 

And winter in the bloom that robes thy lips; 
Will blot those smiles that breathe of love and truth, 

And those fair eyes of azure light eclipse : 
But o'er thy beauty's cloud the soul will rise 

In all the sunshine of her morning bloom ; 
And mind, immortal mind, will ope her eyes 

Above the brow that moulders in the tomb! 
Oh, let me lie, when Death's pale courser steals 

With muffled hoof upon my weary way, 
Where Hesper's star his softened light reveals, 

And where thy soul looks down with purest ray. 
And could the laurel shade with living green 

The humble turf that flowers upon my breast, 
My gladdened spirit there should walk unseen, 

Save by the light that charmed it from its rest! 
Oft would I watch, when silent evening's hour 

Expands her dewy wings of doubtful light; 
Oft would I watch, amid my laurel bower, 

Thy vestal beam that greets my lingering sight 



118 POEMS. 

And there perchance mine ears might drink the strain 
That many a sage hath dreamed, and bard hath sung, 

Which breathes from yonder starry, twinkling train, 
E'en while they walk their azure halls among. 



TO A YOUNG LADY. 



J.S this thy triumph, this thy might, 

Thy boasted grandeur, O my mind ! 
To melt away at beauty's sight, 

And in her lovely beam grow blind? 
No longer vaunt thy heavenly birth, 

Vain slave to Woman's conquering eye ! 
And dream no more high dreams of worth, 

Ideal strength and majesty! 



120 POEMS. 

But where's the mind that would not bow 

Before the form my soul adores, 
That would not melt beneath the glow 

Her eye of living lustre pours? 
For she is like some gorgeous dream, 

That Fancy weaves of loveliest hue, 
And pours a bright, unreal beam, 

To mock us with a distant view. 

She seems as though some shape of light 

Had from the Poet's mind descended, 
Clothed with each hue of Heaven, and bright, 

With every charm of virtue blended. 
Light of my soul ! O let thy ray 

Smile on the breaking clouds of life; 
And let thy sunny charm display 

The flush of Hope mid care and strife. 



POEMS. 121 

'Tis not a " cheek of roseate hue" 

That wins a heart to love like mine; 
Tis not an " eye of liquid blue" 

That beams upon its secret shrine : 
The form I love is Beauty's soul, 

Breathed through a mould of mortal grace; 
And oh, the mind streams through the whole, 

Her burning eye, her speaking face. 



TO THE SAME. 



r air, in the hues of mimic light, 

Each vision smiles of future bliss; 
But dreams that spread their charms so bright, 

Must wither in a world like this; 
Dark grief will veil the rising glow, 

And shade each hue that glitters fair; 
Each tear an envious cloud will throw 

On every smile that lingers there. 



124 POEMS. 

Though Hope, amid tempestuous skies, 

In distant glory still may gleam ; 
And o'er each breaking cloud may rise 

The lustre of her borrowed beam: 
Yet she but smiles to lure the mind 

To wider wastes, and storms more keen ; 
Then pours her secret ray behind 

Some deeper cloud, and burns unseen. 

Ye hopes! ye visions! ah, no more 

Your fairy charms bring joy to me, 
The beam that warmed this heart before, 

Is quenched in present misery. 
The peace I lost, can I regain? 

No — give me back the heart I gave! 
How dear were death, how sweet its pain, 

Would Stella weep but on my grave. 



TO THE SAME, 



v/h! had we sooner met or never! 

Ere yet my faith was plighted; 
Then might my hopes have bloomed for ever 

Alas! too early blighted! 

I gazed upon those eyes, soft beaming 

In their young radiant beauty; 
Until this heart, all fondly dreaming, 

Thought love to thee was duty. 



126 POEMS. 

But from this dream of friendship waking, 

A dream too oft betraying, 
I felt each guilty heart-string breaking, 

Each charm of life decaying. 

And when this frame, a mouldering ruin. 

Shall soon the grave encumber, 
Perchance one tear, thy cheek bedewing, 

May consecrate its slumber. 

And from that dew-drop, there descending, 

A lonely flower shall florish ; 
And Pity, o'er each blossom bending, 

Its opening bloom shall nourish. 

July, 1818. 



TO THE SAME. 



JTarewell! farewell! those hopes are past. 

Which Fancy's airy pencil drew; 
Too fair, too beautiful to last 

Was every bright but transient hue ! 
Too lovely source of all my woe, 

May peace within thy bosom dwell; 
1 would not that thy heart should know 

The pang that bids me sigh— farewell ! 



128 POEMS. 

That pure unsullied soul of thine, 

Long have I loved — but loved in vain; 
But incense breathed from lips like mine, 

The brightness of its beam would stain. 
Ah ! never must those lips avow 

The secret which they burn to tell: 
See — see — 'tis written on my brow, 

'Tis whispered in my last farewell! 

September, 1818. 



HELP, LORD, OR WE PERISH. 



J^ ather of Heaven! to thee I raise 
My heart in prayer, my lips in praise, 
When Morning sheds her rosy light, 
And in the silent hour of night! 
The golden orbs that burn on high, 
This beauteous earth, this glorious sky, 
The eternal ocean, all proclaim 
How wonderful the Maker's name ! 
Thy voice retiring chaos heard, 
And trembled at the potent Word ; 



130 POEMS. 

Creation rose, serenely bright, 

And clothed her charms in heavenly light. 

And oh! that ruined world redeem, 
Emmanuel! with thy saving beam ; 
Oh ! call each soul from dark dismay, 
And it shall rise in endless day ! 
Pour down thy Spirit from above, 
And every heart shall glow with love ; 
In vain the fiends of hell may strive, 
Thy breath will keep its fire alive: 
And it shall burn for ever bright, 
Unquenchable its living light; 
Thy love in every beam shall shine, 
Eternal, glorious, and divine: 
Though dark despair may veil its ray, 
That transient cloud will glide away ; 
Though earth with all her stars expire, 
Still glows that unconsuming fire! 






POEMS. 

And when the waves of life shall roll 
Around my doubting, sinking soul, 
Thou, Thou, amid the storm shalt stand, 
Extending thine Almighty Hand! 
O come, my Saviour! let me bear 
The cross I am not meet to share ; 
Oh, let me wash my guilty stains 
In fountains flowing from thy veins ! 
And like a plant my soul shall rise 
With blossoms opening to the skies; 
Again her faded bloom renew 
In those red drops of healing dew ! 



131 



Matlock, Sept. 1818. 



TO MIRANDA, 









h ull many a mount and green retreat, 
Have groaned beneath these weary feet, 
Since last I viewed thine azure eye 
Beam in its chastened purity : 
Yes — I have traced the rocky shore, 
Where Deva's waves of madness roar, 
Where, clothed in flowers, Llangollen flings 
Her loveliest bloom, and brightest springs, 



134 POEMS. 

Once vocal to the song of fame, 
Breathed to the valley's high-born dame*. 

Hoel! that maiden's youthful bloom 
Hath withered in the silent tomb ; 
The roseate glow of beauty's light, 
Hath vanished in eternal night! 
The eye that age could scarce eclipse, 
The music lingering on her lips, 
Each winning smile, each magic grace, 
The wonders of her radiant face, 
No more the admiring world may bless 
With all their varied loveliness. 
But, oh! the well-remembered strain 
Revives her in her charms again ; 



Lady Milfanwy Vechan, for whom the Bard Hoel entertained 
a passion. 



POEMS. 13J 

More fair she blooms, and glides along 
In all the living light of song ! 

Though Hoel's genius ne'er may fling 
One flower to deck my wild harp's string, 
Yet never an ignoble fate, 
Miranda! on thy name shall wait. 
Thy treasured memory still shall rest 
In many an orphan's grateful breast, 
Or, blended with his prayers, shall flow, 
Blessed by each pallid child of woe. 

Wales, Aug. 1817. 



LIFE. 



When, clothed in bloom, the heaven-descended 

Spring 
O'er all the landscape waves her balmy wing, 
Soft is each gale, and sweet the silvery dew, 
The floweret's fragrance, and the meadow's hue; 
O'er her pavilion, ever smiling bright, 
The unclouded Morning spreads her golden light; 
Then shines the sky, with radiant glories crowned, 
And one wide flood of splendor bursts around; 



138 POEMS. 

The dark blue Ocean calms his sullen roar, 

And liquid murmurs melt along the shore; 

Bright gush the springs, the teeming valleys bloom, 

And earth exults amid their rich perfume! 

Yet why exult? e'en while the eye surveys 

Her youthful charms — each rosy smile decays! 

And Life, too, passing with the passing hour, 

Like her, must soon resign its transient flower; 

Its youthful promise soon must fade away, 

And all its hopes but blossom to decay; 

Eternal clouds its future path o'ercast, 

And shuddering Conscience frowns upon the past! 



A PICTURE. 



As the rapt swain, on some cloud-mantled height, 

Views the first blush of long expected light, 

Sees beam on beam in gay succession rise, 

One flood of glory overspread the skies; 

Till rocks on rocks with sudden radiance glow, 

And all the laughing landscape shines below; 

Till through her dewy veil, but scarce withdrawn, 

Ope the fair eyelids of the rosy dawn ! 

E'en so I marked through all her youthful mien, 

Each heavenly grace in quick succession seen : 



140 POEMS^ 

All light, she rose, all innocence and mirth, 
A glorious vision sparkling on the earth; 
A lovely dream — a form so sweetly fair, 
The soul of Beauty seemed to harbour there; 
Her angel-breast an Angel's thoughts enshrined, 
And from her eye soft dawned the light of mind! 



TO THE ROSE. 



J. he star of Love on evening's brow hath smiled, 
Showering her golden influence with her beam ; 

Hushed is the ocean wave, and soft and mild 
The breathing Zephyr; lulled is every stream, 
Placid and gentle as a Vestal's dream ! 

The Bard of night, the Angel of the spring, 
O'er the wild minstrels of the grove supreme, 

Near his betrothed flower expands his wing; 

Wake, lovely Rose, awake, and hear thy Poet sing! 



142 POEMS, 

The night is past; wake, Queen of every flower, 

Breathing the soul of spring in thy perfume; 
The pearls of morning are thy wedding dower, 

Thy bridal garment is a robe of bloom ! 

Wake, lovely flower! for now the winter's gloom 
Hath wept itself in April showers away ; 

Wake, lovely flower ! and bid thy smiles assume 
A kindred brightness with the rosy ray, 
That streaks the floating clouds with the young blush 
of day. 

April 26, 1820. 



STANZAS. 









1 hus must it be? and shall my lyre essay 
In strains too rude an uncongenial ray ; 
Bid to thy praise the powerless numbers rise, 
And lure, in vain! one tear-drop from thine eyes? 
Oh ! could my passion, pure as Vesta's fire, 
Avail, dear maid! thy bosom to inspire, 
Bid the rude verse its truth and ardor prove, 
Thou — even thou — might'st pity, if not love! 



144 POEMS. 

Yes! I will dream that love may yet avail 
To win one echo to my bosom's wail; 
One kindred note perchance to thrill in thine, 
One kindred feeling that may throb with mine. 

Then, like the day-star, springing from on high, 
Thy glories dawned, and charmed my wondering 

eye; 
In distance smiled, and oh, serenely bright, 
Broke forth in cloudless grace thy beauty's light! 
Whose living beam, from Heaven's own ray refined, 
Burst from its sphere to awe, to win the mind ! 
Oft would I stray, a visionary child, 
Where Nature frowned sublime, or sweetly smiled ; 
While on my walk, thine imaged form would seem 
Some bright creation of a Poet's dream, 
Some radiant fair, commissioned from above, 
To warm our bosoms with celestial love, 



POEMS. 145 

Gliding along, in purity to bless* 

In the fair light of her own loveliness! 

Where are the grand in soul, the strong in 
heart, 
Who mock at passion, and deride its smart; 
Who, in their rugged mightiness secure, 
Unmoved, unshaken, every shock endure? 
Say, doth not Love from Heaven's own altar flow, 
Beam on our social world, and spread a glow 
O'er the charmed orbit; else, perchance, the 

scene 
Uncheered had withered, unillumed had been! 
Oh ! never, never did my spirit soar, 
In all its pride so loftily before, 
As when it scanned the ethereal blaze of mind, 
That bums in Mary's eye, in Mary's brow en- 
shrined! 



146 POEMS. 

There is the aspiring of a mighty soul, 

Which seems to climb above the world's controul, 

And grasp its kindred heaven ; but still the ray 

Beams forth from virtue meek, and o'er the clay 

And bonds of mortal life, serenely bright, 

In mildest beauty breaks her purest light! 



TO A FAIR STRANGER. 






jLady ! though high amid our northern air, 
The sun but sheds a partial splendor there; 
Although no Zephyrs steal their rich perfume 
From meads that blush with one perpetual bloom; 
Although no groves of sacred myrtle pour 
Their living music soft through every bower; 
Yet soon at Beauty's beam our hearts grow warm, 
Soon melts the soul before her seraph form. 



148 POEMS. 

Oh! could these eyes, when bent on eyes like 
thine, 
Not bless the light that bids their glories shine! 
Not wreathe the flowers of sacred song to deck 
Thy graceful locks, or twine around thy neck! 
But while I gaze, this hand in vain would trace 
The radiant wonders of thy angel facet 
Looks all of Love, whose rosy smiles are given 
Emblems of bliss, of Paradise, and Heaven; 
Eyes ever fair, and eloquently bright, 
Like angels seated on their thrones of light; 
Lips, o'er whose bloom the soul of Music flings 
The dews of song from her ambrosial springs, 
Lives in thine heart, in every charm enshrined — 
The harmony of feature and of mind! 
Oh ! I could while whole hours of life away, 
And bless the unclouded glories of thy ray; 
Thy dazzling veil of Heaven-wove grace adore, 
And fix new beauties as I gaze the more ; 



POEMS. 149 

Hang o'er thy form in ecstacy, and see 
How all the spoils of nature blend in thee; 
The voice of spring, the bloom of summer flowers, 
The dew that soft empearls the teeming bowers; 
The rosy clouds that float in vernal skies, 
Earth's softer hues, and Heaven's refulgent dyes; 
Fair Hesper's orb, the sparkling brow of night, 
Wreathed with a thousand flowers of starry light. 

Oh! thou art more than mortal — some sweet 
dream 
Starting to life beneath the quickening beam 
Of youthful Fancy, when her hopes would soar 
To kindle Beauty never seen before ; 
Some radiant vision wakening into birth. 
Too frail for Heaven, yet too sublime for earth. 

Yes, could this lyre eternal life bestow, 
Amid the light of verse thy charms should glow; 



150 POEMS. 

No storm should rend the roses from thy lips, 

No clouds the sunshine of thine eyes eclipse; 

Thy cheeks should blossom with the blooms of song, 

And ages steal their music from thy tongue ; 

Twine their dark locks with Memory's golden flowers, 

And plant thy fame in their immortal bowers? 



VERSES. 



JDright is the vault of heaven, and high 

The moon serenely glides, 
As through the everlasting sky 

Her orb in glory rides. 

Ah ! that her light so soon should wane, 

Her charms so soon decay ; 
That envious clouds should dare to stain 

Her pure and virgin ray ! 



152 POEMS. 

And thus my wayward heart would dwell 
On dreams of heavenly light ! 

But Hope soon breathed a sad farewell. 
Too transient and too bright! 

But ever shall this mind retain 

The form my fancy drew •' 
For ever pictured on my brain, 

In Passion's warmest hue! 



TO THE MORN. 



The following Lines are supposed to have been writ- 
ten after a Morning Walk, a short time before his 
Death. 



Oh ! Thou Eternal Light, so often sung 
By mightiest Bards, e'en now thy healing dews 
Soft dropping o'er these orbs, by sickness dimmed, 
Revive them with new splendor! How divine 
Laughs the young Morn! How blessedly she comes 
With all her breezy fragrance on my brow ! 
Yea, all creation seems to breathe of thee, 
Image of the Creator! The pure sky 



154 POEMS. 

Reflects thy beauty on the rising world 
Of roses, lilies, and of gorgeous bowers, 
Planted by Love; the everlasting sea 
Calms its green crystal in thy golden smile; 
And, from its deep and most concealed voice, 
Hymns thy bright coming! 



FRAGMENTS 






~ViB&®HIIB£rVS» 



JERUSALEM. 



Uft hath one beam, amid the darkened mind, 
Charmed us from earth, and lured us from mankind; 
One holy ray hath poured a living light 
To guide the soul in her immortal flight, 
Far from those glooms where lingering man must stray 
And mark each lengthening shadow of decay, 
Which ages, darkening as they roll, extend, 
Proclaiming Nature's day more near its end. 



158 FRAGMENTS. 

Spirit of Thought! O, guide, inspire, and cheer 
My mind, all clouded in her earthly sphere ; 
Give her to wander through the skies, and soar 
Where kindred orbs congenial music pour, 
To flow unfrozen, and to roam unchained, 
More free than light, as Ocean unrestrained. 
O ! guide her far from this mortality, 
And raise to heaven's serene her eagle eye, 
To gaze on worlds that dazzle mortal sight, 
Nor droop the wing of her adventurous flight; 
Which yet may soar where stars might fear to roll, 
Or ought may travel save the unshackled soul, 
Which, heaven-enkindled with immortal breath, 
Defies extinction, and will conquer death! 
Bid all her world with bright creations teem, 
And all its sunshine from its clouds redeem; 
Call forth thy light, and with awakening bloom 
Clothe the dull waste of its chaotic tomb! 



FRAGMENTS. 159 

Oh! it was thine to charm, to melt away 
From Milton's soul the bondage of her clay; 
To bid her gaze upon Creation's birth, 
And the mind grappling with the quickened earth; 
And hold high talk with Beings which descend 
On Poets' dreams, when heaven-born visions blend 
All that is pure of light, or fresh of bloom, 
To kindle heaven mid solitude and gloom. 

Thus, a far humbler mind, through earth and 
night, 
O deign to lead, and she shall rise in light! 
Lead her to Jordan's brook, and bid her stray, 
Where bold Isaiah poured the heaven-taught lay, 
And wander o'er the mount of olive shade, 
Through every scene where oft the Saviour prayed ; 
Each hallowed rock, each well-distinguished vale, 
Each grove that deepens to the accustomed gale, 
All that to memory brings each bard or king, 
All that could sway the soul, or strike the string, 



16'0 FRAGMENTS. 

Reveal again; revive the mighty whole, 

And breathe through buried scenes a living soul! 

E'en while she gazes round, the dazzled Mind, 
Dim with her own intensity, grows blind; 
Thus Adam viewed, amid his dust and clay, 
The earth all clad with flowers, the blaze of day; 
The liquid heavens, and Ocean's breast serene, 
Warm with the mellowing ray which tinged its 

green : 
All seemed to live; and each expanded sense 
Thrilled to Creation's wide magnificence. 



What boots it here to tell how Hiram reared, 
Sublime and vast, to Heaven the fane revered? 
The flowers that blushed, the palms that bloomed 

around, 
The fretted roof with radiant sculpture crowned ; 



FRAGMENTS. 161 

How bright with golden wings the cherubs glowed, 
And streaming glories graced the high abode, 
The holy presence, where the dazzled sight 
Would shrink beneath the unutterable light, 
Reserved for God! who views his suppliants raise 
The heart's pure incense, redolent of praise ! 
There, once amid a cloud's ambrosial wreath*, 
Where Spring might wake her flower-clad world be* 

neath, 
He veiled his glory, and revealed anew, 
As erst o'er Eden, his reviving dew, 
And blessed that paradise which rose again, 
Thrilled by ethereal hymns, his glorious fane! 
There, all unspotted from the blur of earth, 
The Soul might pause on her immortal birth, 
Then spread her eagle-wing and mount sublime, 
And dream she breathed again her native clime ; 

* Josephus. 



16*2 FRAGMENTS, 

And, won from sense, redeemed from foul decay, 
Feel the calm twilight of a purer day. 

E'er God revealed His own unclouded light, 
The staggering mind through darkness groped and 

night; 
On every side the clouds of error grew 
With one confused, one undistinguished hue, 
Till Thought surveyed her own immortal frame, 
Which heaven had kindled into life and flame ; 
And marked on high her own creation's rise, 
And multiply her image in the skies: 
The wild enchantress of a world unknown, 
Oft in her secret clouds she walked alone, 
And charmed the lengthening waste of pagan 

gloom 
To teem with visions and to smile with bloom ; 
Such magic dreams her mighty hand hath given 
To live, and sway illimitable Heaven! 






FRAGMENTS. 163 

Sometimes of stars she built a vast abode, 
While her conceptions labored with a god, 
And feared to mark his lofty flight aspire, 
But doubted, hoped, and trembled to admire, 
With kindred powers, but boundless in their might, 
It mocked her feeble ken, sublime and infinite. 



How shall we rank thee, David! bard and king, 
An empire formed to rule, and strike the string: 
Oh, skilled to act a double conqueror's part, 
A realm to subjugate, and quell the heart! 
Thine was a blessed lot, o'er every sire 
To view thy son on wisdom's wing aspire, 
To cull with tender and parental hand, 
The weeds that lurk where'er the flowers expand, 
And crop their wild luxuriance in its growth, 
Which checks the fair development of youth. 



164 FRAGMENTS. 

Great was thy heart, and generous; brave and kind, 
The bard subdued the hero in thy mind : 
One woke thy strength, and one the light of song 
To guide thine arm from vengeance and from 

wrong ; 
One gave a stubborn realm to thy eontroul, 
And one the empire of the willing soul. 

High was thy skill to win the lingering ear, 
To wake the smile, or charm away the tear; 
The world of passion and of thought to sway, 
And bid it teem with visions bright and gay: 
And Saul confessed thy silver sounds could bind 
With spells resistless the revolting mind : 
Oh ! they could rule his madness, his despair, 
And smooth that brow up-ploughed and pale with 

care, 
Sooth the dark throes of laboring thought within, 
Whose vast conceptions blacken into sin, 



FRAGMENTS. 165 

And calm that feeling of a world's distress, 
When the mind shivers in her wilderness 
Of hopes all chilled, of visions all decayed, 
And broods o'er solitudes herself hath made! 

Hail, holy art! whose magic charm can give 
Soul to each thought, and bid its visions live, 
Each throb, each passion of the heart can calm, 
And breathe through secret wounds a secret balm; 
Can harmonize the breast, and wake the mind 
To hopes less dark, to visions more refined ! 
To thee, to thee the light of soul is given, 
An image thou of blessedness in heaven, 
Where worth may roam, redeemed from clay, sublime, 
And breathe thy cloudless purity of clime. 

Well might the sage, in midnight's secret hour. 
From man abstracted, in his lonely bower, 
When the fair Moon, unclouded and serene, 
With silver brightness clothed the silent scene, 



166 FRAGMENTS. 

And Ocean smiled, and mantled with her beam, 
Flowed calm away — like childhood's tranquil dream : 
Well might he deem the wave had sunk to rest, 
Charmed by the spell which harmonized his breast, 
While round his soul he feels some viewless chain 
Link all the boundless heavens, the earth, and main, 
All that is bright on high, or vast below, 
In deepest groves, on mountains crowned with snow ; 
And deem those charms the universe controul, 
Which soothe the world of passion and of soul ! 



But how shall man, with his degraded strain, 

Celestial Bard! thy glowing pomp sustain, 

How shall he dare to strike the feeble lyre 

To thee, whose breath was song, whose soul was fire ; 



FRAGMENTS. 167 

Mightiest mid those who with tumultuous swell 
Poured forth their hearts along the trembling shell! 
On thee, Isaiah ! smiled the secret ray, 
And all thy darkness changed to sudden day; 
With thee abode the Holy Spirit still, 
In bovver, by stream, on solitary hill; 
Where foaming falls arrest the pilgrim's feet, 
With thee, It sanctified the lone retreat. 



LETTERS 









A. T. TATLOW, ESQ. 



MY DEAR ANTHONY, 

I RECEIVED your very affectionate and entertaining 
letter, which I read with the greatest satisfaction. — 
1 am infinitely obliged to you for your opinions upon 
Gibbon; and the notices you have made relative to the 
poetical subjects which you have met with in that his- 
torian. For information of the latter kind, I feel more 
particularly thankful — as 1 believe, in my conversations 
with you, I often unfolded to you my design of hereaf- 
ter exhibiting the noble exploits of heroes, the mighty 
sentiments of philosophers, the grand aspirings of poets 



172 LETTERS. 

and legislators, in one poem. Whether, after a just cal- 
culation of those powers which God may have given 
me, I may find them equal to a labor of such extent, and 
of such diversity, is a subject I would gladly investigate; 
a subject, indeed, fraught with no inconsiderable diffi- 
culty, when we consider the almost insurmountable bar- 
riers which close in upon our self-love, and defend it 
from that salutary scrutiny by which we may obtain a 
just admeasurement of our intellect. The subversion of 
the Gothic dominion by Narses, I think with you, would 
afford a lofty subject for the Epic Muse. The destruc- 
tion of the Vandalic power in Africa would afford many 
striking incidents; but, upon the whole, I do not think 
its importance at all commensurate with the interest it 
might supply. But the great objection to all subjects of 
this kind, is their want of nationality; without which, 
an epic poem will never be popular, however much the 
splendor of its passages may dazzle, and the boldness of 
its conceptions astonish, the mind. The great charm in 
Homer and Virgil, the charm which bound, as it were. 



LETTERS. 173 

the sentiments of the author to the bosom of the reader, 
was awakened by the mighty spell of national pride 
and national enthusiasm. The long-continued admira- 
tion of a people is always ratified by distant posterity. 
We sacrifice to the manes of their departed grandeur, 
as if they had been our immediate ancestors; and we 
afterwards think with their opinions, build our notions 
of morality upon the sentiments which they have af- 
forded—and, indeed, so entwine their principles around 
our very hearts, that we, in a manner, imagine ourselves 
Greeks in thought, and Romans in action. This feel- 
ing, which we derive in our boyhood, continues inde- 
lible throughout life ; and it happens, as with all other 
early and good impressions, that, whenever occasion im- 
pels, or circumstance invites, the generous sympathies 
of our youth are revived in the maturity of manhood. 
— We, therefore, in our turn, venerate Homer as the 
Greeks venerated him; and look upon Virgil with Ro- 
man admiration. 



174 LETTERS. 

But whence, you will ask, is the everlasting fame of 
Milton to be acquired? He built the structure of his re- 
putation upon no national foundation, he fixed the land- 
mark of his genius upon no soil consecrated by national 
sympathies and recollections, he is not the poet of Eng- 
land, but the bard of Europe— He laid his foundation not 
in the British, but in the human breast, he chose a subject 
which has spread wherever Christianity extends, and 
which is founded in all the religious feelings of the civil- 
i zed world. Had he chosen an English subj ect, he would 
still have remained the poet of England ; and, perhaps, 
like Homer and Virgil, would have been worshipped by 
distant posterity, who might chance to make English 
literature the guide and model of their own. But, as it 
is, the name of Milton is fondly cherished in Italy, and 
his works are the object of imitation to the Germans.— 
Perhaps France who can, in her poetry at least, endure 
nothing which savours of originality, is the only coun- 
try where our immortal poet is not venerated as he de- 
serves. 



LETTERS. 1/5 

You will forgive me for having extended my observa- 
tions upon this subject. It is, indeed, nearly connected 
with the objections which have been made to the intro- 
duction of machinery in our poetry, which is not conse- 
crated by national belief. These are subjects which 
must beweighed well, thoroughly sifted and examined, 
before a man attempts a poem which he may hope will 
survive him. 

Th ere are many reasons why the Romans and G reeks 
confined themselves to national subjects, which will not 
hold with the present generation. What nations, at 
their respective aeras, were civilized but themselves? 
or, what barbarous people could they expect to peruse 
their productions? Europe is now civilized through 
all its important divisions; and a man who writes at all, 
should be desirous to write for Europe. The English 
authors are much read at present on the Continent; an 
indisputable proof, in my opinion, of their excellence in 
depicting broad and general nature. 



1 7^ LETTERS* 

Your remarks upon style, I think, are very good. 
You are perhaps too severe on Addison and Swift. 1 
dislike, as much as any man, the puling insipidity in 
which certain lukewarm imitators of these writers have 
indulged ; but when we consider that the subj eets whioh 
they most commonly discussed, required a light, airy, and 
easy style, rather than a deep, antithetical, or concise 
manner; you will, I am convinced, allow them more 
commendation* Addison has indeed sometimes ven- 
tured into the profound recesses of philosophy ; but, as 
far as I can discern, he has only elucidated, in language 
sufficiently clear, those floating sentiments in the meta- 
physical atmosphere, which may be applicable to com- 
mon life. I consider that his excellence consists in the 
ability with which he depicts the sentiments and cha- 
racters of those unpretending men, where nothing is 
bold, and consequently nothing striking. His mind was 
not sufficiently lofty to create, but it was well adapted 
to reflect the wandering sparks which were struck out 



LETTERS. 177 

from mightier minds, and which otherwise might have 
been lost to the world. 

The great authors which have adorned the prose li- 
terature of our country, should not exclusively be sought 
among the Addisons, the Swifts, the Humes; but we 
ought to look for models of sublimity of sentiment and 
energy of style, among the Bacons, the Sir Walter 
Raleighs, the Hookers, of Elizabeth's reign. Let me, 
I beg of you, recommend you to read Sir Walter Ra- 
leigh's " History of the World" — a book replete with 
profound views, Thucydidean eloquence, and a clear- 
ness and elegance of diction, which would have done 
credit to Xenophon or Hume. There is, I believe, a 
history written by the poet Daniel, the merits of which 
I have heard highly extolled, but which has never yet 
reached me. 

1 have been reading Sophocles, and have collected 



178 LETTERS. 

matter for a glossary of that poet, and nothing but the 
arrangement is wanting. As you speak of applying as- 
siduously to Greek, before you enter upon a course of 
history, it might perhaps be expedient to read Homer's 
Iliad through; which, with the advantages of a good 
memory, (which you possess to perfection), you could do, 
I am convinced, with much ease, during the evenings of 
this winter. There is a glossary, called a " Clavis Ho- 
merica," which I have, and which shall be at your ser- 
vice, that will prevent your looking out any of the words. 
Homer, after you have read a few books, will grow as fa- 
miliar as Chaucer, (whom, by the bye, he much resem- 
bles) ; and you will be enabled, in one long evening, to 
read a book with great facility . Xenophon will then be- 
come amusement unmixed with toil ; and you will then 
be admirably armed for coping with Thucydides. 

A Greek grammar, upon better principles than those 
hitherto published, is expected to proceed from ourUni- 



LETTERS. 179 

versity press; a copy of which I will faithfully send you 
when it appears. 

I believe our lectures will recommence very early 
in February, I shall therefore certainly be in Cambridge 
on duty at the time when you make your Derby visit: 
but supposing 1 should have no occasion to be present, 
I would make a point of meeting you there, rather than 
miss so admirable an opportunity of seeing you. " Pro- 
crastination," I once had occasion to learn of my writ- 
ing-master, " is the thief of time;" it is also the thief 
of all our pleasures. I must not therefore permit you 
to defer your visit till the spring. As you do not come 
this month, I shall have no occasion to remain at Cam- 
bridge longer than the latter end of next week, when I 
shall most probably return to London, or even before 
that time, if I can get away. 

I have been far too dissipated lately to do much but 



180 LETTERS. 

what I have produced I will either send to you, or keep 
for your perusal in February. Recollect that month, 
and I shall be prepared for you. 

* # * * * * * 
lam 

Your very affectionate Brother, 

J. St. MAWE. 
Cambridge, Dec. 11, 1817. 



MY DEAR ANTHONY. 

I MUST appear to have neglected not only yourself, 
but the whole family, inasmuch as I have taken little 
or no notice of any of their letters ; but, believe me, the 
neglect arose from incapacity, rather than from want 
of inclination : and a letter I wrote a few days ago 



LETTERS. 181 

to my dear friend, Mr. Tatlow, is the only exception. 
To say the truth, I have felt myself lately quite inca- 
pable of expressing my thoughts to my own satisfac- 
tion, which I believe is partly owing to a stoppage of 
the current of my ideas, at particular times, partly to 
indolence, and partly to any other cause your charity 
may suggest. 

With respect to my views and ideas relative to 
Montreal, they have, like every thing else with which 
my mind is imbued, all disappeared, and other thoughts, 
other views, take possession of the situation which they 
before had held, and die my imagination with other 
colors, and with other hopes. I wrote to your dear fa- 
ther some time since, requesting his opinion on this par- 
ticular subject, or on any other of the same kind which 
might hereafter offer. 1 should in my last letter have 
made you acquainted with the circumstances, but 1 
had not received the information till the evening of the 
day on which I wrote to you. 



182 LETTERS. 

Now, with respect to my studies— -my college — 
and my sentiments on both. When 1 first came to 
Cambridge, I considered that the studies of the place 
would be uncongenial to my mind, and that I should 
be like some blasted flower that beheld its neigh- 
bours flourishing around it, imbibing and nourished 
by the dews of science, which would fall useful to 
all, but unfelt by me. When I arrived, I had an 
opportunity of at least trying the sciences, and I was 
disgusted. I applied to them with ardor, and while I 
applied, I believe my labors were crowned with suc- 
cess. I conquered Euclid with little difficulty; nay, 
even brought myself to admire his fourth and sixth 
books; and certainly, by endeavouring to be pleased, 
I became less disgusted. The next Term, Algebra 
opened her charms upon me. I pursued her with the 
same ardor as I had before her mathematical mother, 
but I became fatigued with the pursuit, and beheld 
" Alps rising upon Alps" before I could attain my 
ends; and I now, (but I wish this to be secret), have 



LETTERS. 183 

quarrelled with " diva Mathesis." From a little ex- 
perience of my own, I think myself entitled to say, that 
to be a mathematician no genius is required; to become 
a great mathematician, some ingenuity (which bears 
the same reference to genius as cunning does to wis- 
dom) may be wanted: but I think great perseverance, 
great patience, and withal, a quantum sufficit of dull- 
ness, would go a great way towards preparing a mathe- 
matician. 

You cannot very easily form a correct idea concerning 
the genius of this place, unless you had resided a por- 
tion of your time here ; for you would at one instant be 
convinced that the noblest establishments that ever rear- 
ed their heads, florished here in their most exalted glo- 
ry — at another time, you would turn away at the scenes 
of illiberality, selfishness, narrow-mindedness, which 
have darkened the stage of this university. Almost all 
the poets who florished in England, received their 



184 LETTERS. 

education here; yet, is there one who has not satirized 
it with his keenest shaft, and marked it with his sever- 
est exprobration? Even Lord Byron, though educated 
at Trinity, by far the most enlightened and liberal col- 
lege in the university, speaks with indignation at the 
contempt which is here heaped upon that unfortunate 
lady, the Muse ; and perhaps he has too much reason 
to apply the scourge of his penetrating satire. 

Next week, we begin our lectures again after the 
Easter recess, and enter upon our career by investigat- 
ing the theory of numbers. Upon my word, I fear I 
shall exclaim with Milton— 

Nuda nee arva placent, umbrasque negantia molles, 
Quam male Phcebicolis convenit ille locus! 

who is speaking, in one of his fine Latin elegies, of the 
place I have been describing. I have a demon (an un- 
fortunate bias towards poetry) which misdirects me 



LETTERS. 185 

continually, which governs my motions, and is, alas! 
the source of all my hopes. With this buoy, which lifts 
me to the heavens, which bids me gaze with reveren- 
tial awe on the works that never fade, can I, with the 
blaze of heaven before my eyes, minutely dwell upon 
the mechanical particles, divided and subdivided, of 
mathematical demonstration? 

I have lately been reading the " Paradise Regained," 
and I have had an opportunity of correcting what I now 
consider my former bad taste. I admire it exceedingly, 
and think that some passages transcend any thing in 
the Paradise Lost; but of course, in design, scope, art, 
and judgment, it must yield to its elder brother: but 
it evinces throughout that glorious genius unbroken by 
age, and the fire of that mind which death only could 
quench. I have a strong desire to take a pilgrimage 
to the Holy Land; then to visit these parts of Turkey 
which contain Asia Minor, Greece, &c. 



186 LETTERS. 

Have you Fairfax's Tasso, and any good translation 
of Dante ? I am persuaded that the Italian contains a 
fine store-house of divine poetry. Give my love to all, 
and believe me affectionately and sincerely 
Your's &c. 



#** ** #** 



MY DEAPv ANTHONY, 

YOU will think I have been very negligent towards 
you ; but I have lately been so excessively engaged, that 
every hour I was not employed, I spent in exercise. I 
shall be extremely obliged to you, if you will endea- 
vour to procure for me Fairfax's Tasso ; and if you have 
Spencer's Works, I shall also thank you if you will 
lend them to me. I have become exceedingly fond of 



LETTERS. 187 

the literature of the Elizabethan age, and in fact I am 
persuaded, that the finest treasures of the human intel- 
lect are discoverable in the writers of that period. Ma- 
ny of the grand expressive words of Milton, in them- 
selves sentences, are to be found in Fletcher and San- 
dys. There is great splendor in Fletcher, and 1 am 
enchanted with Spencer: the character of the Childe 
Harold, with respect to style, both of diction and sen- 
timent, is entirely of antient date. As for instance, 
when Lord Byron encloses in a stanza or two, a fine 
description, and concludes withadeep moral sentiment, 
he appears to imitate our older writers ; and the melo- 
dy of the versification of the Elizabethan age, is cer- 
tainly unrivalled. 

I cannot comprehend how Pope could possibly be 
raised as the standard of harmony. The truth most cer- 
tainly is, that the age is now returning to its antient 
faith in these matters, and that poetry will again be- 



188 LETTERS. 

come the effluence of Nature, Imagination, and Passion. 
Lord Byron, I hear, will prosecute the Childe Harold, 
which will form a mark of the greatest distinction of 
the present poetical sera; it will shine for ever, an ex- 
ample of almost unparalleled dignity of mind and sub- 
limity of sentiment. 

With respect to my Cambridge studies, I have 
lately finished an arduous examination in classics and 
mathematics; and, by the examination, I have deter- 
mined to read no more of the latter, till a short time 
before I take my degree: I am certaiti it will be mere 
loss of time; I cannot sufficiently abstract myself to 
shine in them, and I had rather almost be ignorant of 
them, than read them a great deal, and then recom- 
pense my trouble with but a confined knowledge of the 
science. I have grown, besides, a great admirer of 
Thucydides, aiid purpose reading his history through, 
this vacation. I have read the seventh book, and I was 



LETTERS. 189 

astonished at the sublimity of description which per- 
vades the whole. Thucydides is like our old poets, all 
thought, all expression, all grandeur; but he is without 
elegance. I shall then begin ./Eschylus, and compare 
him with Milton. I wish I could procure very excel- 
lent translations of Dante and Ariosto, and I would 
then balance him with them. 

I had some intention of learning Italian, but 1 must 
postpone it till I am a master of Greek literature, of 
which I hope, in some years, to obtain a competent 
knowledge. I will read those authors till I can imbibe 
some of their soul; and even, if I run the risk which 
Portia did for liberty, I will swallow their fire and pe- 
rish by it. 

I am, &c. 



190 LETTERS. 



MY DEAR BROTHER, 

THERE are many reasons which would induce me to 
write to you, without intruding upon my uncle's waste 
ground * ; and to say the truth, I have long meditated 
upon the subject — for to write to you is generally with 
me a subject of meditation. 

My mind has been of late in no inconsiderable state 
of fermentation ; and 1 am far from having attained that 
degree of composure, which is necessary for me to give 
a circumstantial account of its different agitations. From 
my earliest youth, to the present day, I have been the 
dupe and victim of unrealized dreams, and the vain fol- 
lower of unsubstantial phantoms ; and I now continue 
under the influence of that charm which raises them as 



This letter was written on the back of his Uncle's. 



LETTERS. 191 

often as I am permitted to reflect. I have soothed my- 
self by the idea of possessing some degree of mental 
strength ; but I am led away by every trifling imagina- 
tion which is woven in my brain. I can conceive pro- 
jects which may promise fair ; but I feel that I cannot 
conquer that discursive tendency in my nature, which 
renders them vain and inefficient, by a kind of mental 
dissipation. 

You remember the delightful hours we spent toge- 
ther at Matlock, and our disquisitions on the nature of 
the mind and soul ; you remember the nice distinctions 
we made, how we fixed the boundaries of each; how 
every attribute was confined within its proper limit, 
and to its proper province. Matlock is to me a kind 
of nursery of thought; whether from the influence of 
the grand in nature, or from secret associations which 
we may in vain endeavour to unravel, I always find, 
that among these rocks my mind attains a sensible 
progress towards maturity. I have considered, and 
reconsidered the subject with minuteness, and I hope 



192 LETTERS* 

with accuracy, and I find that St. Paul, and more 
particularly St. John, have solved many difficulties, 
at which mere mortal reason would have shrunk 
away abashed in hopeless confusion. The grand 
system of regeneration is the foundation upon which 
our theory ought to have been built; in that, we 
see the mighty operation of one eternal incorrupt- 
ible Spirit (the Spirit of God) upon the mind, the 
passions, the feeling, the disposition, and lastly, upon 
l-he body itself. The celestial frame purifies every thing 
within its reach, refines every pollution, and restores us 
to that state of spiritual perfection from which our ge- 
neral ancestor had fallen. Here was a secret which 
had not reached my ear, or at least had never penetrated 
my heart. Here is a secret which would have ever re- 
mained concealed in the same blaze of unapproached 
light which surrounds the Godhead, had not the re- 
vealed word of the Almighty made it manifest to every 
one susceptible of spirituality. 

But enough of this. I intended going over some pri- 



LETTERS. 193 

vate details relative to myself, if I had had time. I be- 
lieve the question of my settlement in life will soon be 
decided; the manner and the means, will perhaps 
bear some debate— but it must be. My love of retire- 
ment, and my passion for letters, some have thought, 
are sufficient reasons why I should bend my atten- 
tion to the Church; if I feel that other very differ- 
ent considerations have any influence over me, I will 
not say that it is unlikely to be my choice. I am per- 
suaded that my disposition is at least uncongenial 
with the dry severities of legal lucubrations. The real 
advocate is different from the one I dreamed of in those 
days, when my imagination was the parent of a thou- 
sand vivid conceptions, which danced in all the sun- 
shine of my mind, and soon melted away. 
I am, &c. 

*### * * ##** 
Derby, Aug. 17, 1818. 



1D4 LETTERS, 



THE REV. CHARLES SWAN. 



MY DEAR SWAN, 

YOUR letters (for which I am much obliged to you) 
have followed me over a great part of this and the neigh- 
bouring counties. This circumstance must therefore ac- 
count for my not having attended to them earlier. The 
fact is, I have been some time in Gloucestershire, tmd 
have travelled over much of Staffordshi re : having hap- 
pily deviated from my first intention, of spending my 
autumn in Town ; and having exchanged the " brown 
horrors" of London for the green felicities of trees and 
meadows. — By the bye, your last letter has made me 
quite romantic, and I have been dreaming, ever since 
1 received it, of nothing but desert moors, inaccessible 



LETTERS. 195 

mountains, and foaming cataracts: I have been medi- 
tating for hours upon Lord Byron's picture of Solitude, 
and have imagined you upon the summit of some dizzy 
precipice, in all the sublimity of fancied desertion. But 
it is time to turn to the subjects to which you refer in 
your first letter ; the passage you have found, is, I con- 
fess, a striking coincidence ; but I can assure you, that 
this coincidence was a matter of which I was perfectly 
ignorant. To the idea of the pre-existence of the soul, 
I make no claim of originality. ] do not know that, at 
the time I wrote " Angelo," I was aware of its being a 
Platonic tenet : but most likely I was. The only claim 
which I make to originality, is in the application of the 
idea, (from whatever source I may have derived it) : — 
this, I believe, was the product of my own mind. The 
passage you bring forward, I suppose you found in some 
Platonic or Pythagorean philosopher; in the writings 
of whom the literature of Greece, in its rise, and in its 
decline, greatly abounded 



196* LETTERS. 

I congratulate you upon your solitude; and I hope, in 
a literary point of view, it may be beneficial — provided 
you be not in love— for if you be, my hoping will avail 
but little. I shall not reside the next term at reverend 
Cam, as I thought. I hope to take orders about the 
middle of next year; and then farewell all things but 
religious duties. 

I am yours, very sincerely, 

J. St. MAWE, 
Cheltenham, Sept. £9 1819. 



LETTERS. 197 



MY DEAR SWAN, 

IT was my intention, some time ago, to have given you 
"my ideas" upon your poems; but for this fortnight 
past I have been so much engaged with some private 
affairs, that I had hardly leisure to send you the esti- 
mate I had formed of them. Besides, I preferred read- 
ing them again, in print ; which, as I have done, the 
last proof sheet being now before me, I beg leave to 
offer you my congratulations upon them. So far from 
the poems losing any interest by a second perusal, I 
confess I am far more pleased with them than before. 
The poem called '* Retribution," contains many passa- 
ges of that kind of romantic softness, in which I think 
you are calculated to excel. The scene I like the best 
is that where a certain frail one is rowed over the Trent. 
The scenery is very sweetly drawn, and the whole forms 
a very interesting picture. The versification 1 think 



198 LETTERS. 

excellent; there are all the varieties of cadence that 
one wishes to find ; and which one very seldom finds 
in a modern poet, except it be mixed up also with all 
the affectations of the present day. Your comparison 
of life to a rose-bud, is very delightful, though perhaps 
there might be found a few superfluous lines in it. As 
it is, your present work is certainly the best specimen 
I have seen of your writing : and although I cannot say 
that it is quite faultless, it contains many beauties of a 
very promising kind. As you have placed me in the 
Critic's chair, I must tell you, that I think the plot or 
groundwork of the poem is of too diffuse a nature. Your 
object, as you tell us in the dedication, is to make a re- 
cantation to the world of certain errors which you en- 
tertained respecting the female mind, and the female 
disposition : you also intended to give " your ideas" 
respecting female education. These were the leading 
topics of your poetical discourse; I think, then, you 
should have selected, or created, characters more pe- 
culiarly evincing the benefit of good, or showing the 



LETTERS. 199 

evils of bad, education. These small stories would have 
formed the episodes of a moral piece, would have illus- 
trated your principles, and have enforced your precepts. 
Perhaps, indeed, (and 1 should be very happy to find it 
the case), the beauty of the sketches themselves have 
cozened my philosophy ; and I am perhaps complaining 
of what may be a great beauty, viz. that there is too 
little appearance of art. By all means I would recom- 
mend to you this kind of poetry: — An easy romantic 
style, with the occasional touching of a brilliant pen- 
cil, is, I believe, your forte. 

***** 

Your's &c. 

**#* #* **** 



W. M'Dowall Printer, Pemberlon Row 
Govgh Square. 



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